University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


RACHEL 


RACHEL 


A  Play  in  Three  Acts 


ANGELINA  W.   GRIMKE 


THE  CORNHILL  COMPANY 

BOSTON 


Copyright,  1920,  by 
THE  CORNHILL  COMPANY 


All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of  translation  into 
foreign  languages 


CHARACTERS 

MRS  MARY  LOVING,  a  widow. 

RACHEL  LOVING,  her  daughter. 

THOMAS  LOVING,  her  son. 

JIMMY  MASON,  a  small  boy. 

JOHN  STRONG,  a  friend  of  the  family. 

MRS.  LANE,  a  caller. 

ETHEL  LANE,  her  daughter. 

MARY, 

NANCY, 

EDITH, 

JENNY, 

LOUISE, 

MARTHA, 

little  friends  of  Rachel. 

TIME:  The  first  decade  of  the  Twentieth  Century. 

ACT  I.    October  i6th. 

ACT  II.    October  i6th,  four  years  later. 

ACT  III.    One  week  later. 

PLACE:  A  northern  city.    The  living  room  in  the  small 
apartment  of  Mrs.  Loving. 

All  of  the  characters  are  colored. 


ACT  I 


RACHEL 


ACT  I. 

The  scene  is  a  room  scrupulously  neat  and  clean  and  plainly 
furnished.  The  walls  are  painted  green,  the  woodwork, 
white.  In  the  rear  at  the  left  an  open  doorway  leads 
into  a  hall.  Its  bare,  green  wall  and  white  baseboard 
are  all  that  can  be  seen  of  it.  It  leads  into  the  other 
rooms  of  the  flat.  In  the  centre  of  the  rear  wall  of 
the  room  is  a  window.  It  is  shut.  The  white  sash 
curtains  are  pushed  to  right  and  left  as  far  as  they  will 
go.  The  green  shade  is  rolled  up  to  the  top.  Through 
the  window  can  be  seen  the  red  bricks  of  a  house  wall, 
and  the  tops  of  a  couple  of  trees  moving  now  and  then 
in  the  wind.  Within  the  window,  and  just  below  the 
sill,  is  a  shelf  upon  which  are  a  few  potted  plants. 
Between  the  window  and  the  door  is  a  bookcase  full  of 
books  and  above  it,  hanging  on  the  wall,  a  simply 
framed,  inexpensive  copy  of  Millet's  "The  Reapers." 
There  is  a  run  extending  from  the  right  center  to  just 
below  the  right  upper  entrance.  It  is  the  vestibule  of 
the  flat.  Its  open  doorway  faces  the  left  wall.  In  the 
right  wall  near  the  front  is  another  window.  Here  the 
sash  curtains  are  drawn  together  and  the  green  shade 
is  partly  lowered.  The  window  is  up  from  the  bottom. 
Through  it  street  noises  can  be  heard.  In  front  of  this 
window  is  an  open,  threaded  sewing-machine.  Some 
frail,  white  fabric  is  lying  upon  it.  There  is  a  chair  in 


2  RACHEL 

front  of  the  machine  and  at  the  machine's  left  a  small 
table  covered  with  a  green  cloth.  In  the  rear  of  the 
left  wall  and  directly  opposite  to  the  entrance  to  the  flat 
is  the  doorway  leading  into  the  kitchenette,  dishes 
on  shelves  can  be  seen  behind  glass  doors. 

In  the  center  of  the  left  wall  is  a  fireplace  with  a  grate  in  it 
for  coals;  over  this  is  a  wooden  mantel  painted  white. 
In  the  center  is  a  small  clock.  A  pair  of  vases,  green 
and  white  in  coloring,  one  at  each  end,  complete  the 
ornaments.  Over  the  mantel  is  a  narrow  mirror;  and 
over  this,  hanging  on  the  wall,  Burne-Jones'  "Golden 
Stairs,"  simply  framed.  Against  the  front  end  of  the 
left  wall  is  an  upright  piano  with  a  stool  in  front  of  it. 
On  top  is  music  neatly  piled.  Hanging  over  the  piano 
is  Raphael's  "Sistine  Madonna."  In  the  center  of  the 
floor  is  a  green  rug,  and  in  the  center  of  this,  a  rectan- 
gular dining-room  table,  the  long  side  facing  front.  It 
is  covered  with  a  green  table-cloth.  Three  dining-room 
chairs  are  at  the  table,  one  at  either  end  and  one  at  the 
rear  facing  front.  Above  the  table  is  a  chandelier  with 
four  gas  jets  enclosed  by  glass  globes.  At  the  right 
front  center  is  a  rather  shabby  arm-chair  upholstered 
in  green. 
Left  and  right  from  the  spectator's  point  of  view. 

Before  the  sewing-machine,  Mrs.  Loving  is  seated.  She 
looks  worried.  She  is  sewing  swiftly  and  deftly  by 
hand  upon  a  waist  in  her  lap.  It  is  a  white,  beautiful 
thing  and  she  sews  upon  it  delicately.  It  is  about  half- 
past  four  in  the  afternoon;  and  the  light  is  failing. 
Mrs.  Loving  pauses  in  her  sewing,  rises  and  lets  the 
window-shade  near  her  go  up  to  the  top.  She  pushes 
the  sash-curtains  to  either  side,  the  corner  of  a  red 
brick  house  wall  being  thus  brought  into  view.  She 
shivers  slightly,  then  pushes  the  window  down  at 


RACHEL  3 

the  bottom  and  lowers  it  a  trifle  from  the  top.  The 
street  noises  become  less  distinct.  She  takes  off  her 
thimble,  rubs  her  hands  gently,  puts  the  thimble  on 
again,  and  looks  at  the  clock  on  the  mantel.  She  then 
reseats  herself,  with  her  chair  as  close  to  the  window  as 
possible  and  begins  to  sew.  Presently  a  key  is  heard, 
and  the  door  opens  and  shuts  noisily.  Rachel  comes 
in  from  the  vestibule.  In  her  left  arm  she  carries  four 
or  five  books  strapped  together;  under  her  right,  a  roll 
of  music.  Her  hat  is  twisted  over  her  left  ear  and  her 
hair  is  falling  in  tendrils  about  her  face.  She  brings 
into  the  room  with  her  the  spirit  of  abounding  life, 
health,  joy,  youth.  Mrs.  Loving  pauses,  needle  in 
hand,  as  soon  as  she  hears  the  turning  key  and  the 
banging  door.  There  is  a  smile  on  her  face.  For  a 
second,  mother  and  daughter  smile  at  each  other. 
Then  Rachel  throws  her  books  upon  the  dining-room 
table,  places  the  music  there  also,  but  with  care,  and 
rushing  to  her  mother,  gives  her  a  bear  hug  and  a  kiss. 

RACHEL:  Ma  dear!  dear,  old  Ma  dear! 

MRS.  LOVING :  Look  out  for  the  needle,  Rachel !  The  waist! 
Oh,  Rachel ! 

RACHEL  (On  her  knees  and  shaking  her  finger  directly  un- 
der her  mother's  nose.)  :  You  old,  old  fraud!  You  know 
you  adore  being  hugged.  I've  a  good  mind  .  .  . 

MRS.  LOVING  :  Now,  Rachel,  please !  Besides,  I  know  your 
tricks.  You  think  you  can  make  me  forget  you  are  late. 
What  time  is  it? 

RACHEL  (Looking  at  the  clock  and  expressing  surprise)  : 
Jiminy  Xmas!  (Whistles)  Why,  it's  five  o'clock! 

MRS.  LOVING  (Severely)  :  Well! 

RACHEL  (Plaintively)  :  Now,  Ma  dear,  you're  going  to  be 
horrid  and  cross. 


4  RACHEL 

MRS.  LOVING  (Laughing)  :  Really,  Rachel,  that  expression 
is  not  particularly  affecting,  when  your  hat  is  over  your 
ear,  and  you  look,  with  your  hair  over  your  eyes,  exactly 
like  some  one's  pet  poodle.  I  wonder  if  you  are  ever 
going  to  grow  up  and  be  ladylike. 

RACHEL:  Oh!  Ma  dear,  I  hope  not,  not  for  the  longest  time, 
two  long,  long  years  at  least.  I  just  want  to  be  silly  and 
irresponsible,  and  have  you  to  love  and  torment,  and,  of 
course,  Tom,  too. 

MRS.  LOVING  (Smiling  down  at  Rachel)  :  You'll  not  make 
me  forget,  young  lady.  Why  are  you  late,  Rachel? 

RACHEL  :  Well,  Ma  dear,  I'm  your  pet  poodle,  and  my  hat 
is  over  my  ear,  and  I'm  late,  for  the  loveliest  reason. 

MRS.  LOVING  :  Don't  be  silly,  Rachel. 

RACHEL:  That  may  sound  silly,  but  it  isn't.  And  please 
don't  "Rachel"  me  so  much.  It  was  honestly  one  whole 
hour  ago  when  I  opened  the  front  door  down  stairs.  I 
know  it  was,  because  I  heard  the  postman  telling  some  one 
it  was  four  o'clock.  Well,  I  climbed  the  first  flight,  and 
was  just  starting  up  the  second,  when  a  little  shrill  voice 
said,  "  'Lo !"  I  raised  my  eyes,  and  there,  half-way  up 
the  stairs,  sitting  in  the  middle  of  a  step,  was  just  the 
dearest,  cutest,  darlingest  little  brown  baby  boy  you  ever 
saw.  "  'Lo !  yourself,"  I  said.  "What  are  you  doing,  and 
who  are  you  anyway  ?"  "I'm  Jimmy ;  and  I'm  widing  to 
New  York  on  the  choo-choo  tars."  As  he  looked  entirely 
too  young  to  be  going  such  a  distance  by  himself,  I  asked 
him  if  I  might  go  too.  For  a  minute  or  two  he  considered 
the  question  and  me  very  seriously,  and  then  he  said, 
'  'Es,"  and  made  room  for  me  on  the  step  beside  him. 
We've  been  everywhere:  New  York,  Chicago,  Boston, 
London,  Paris^nd  Oshkosh.  I  wish  you  could  have  heard 
him  say  that  last  place.  I  suggested  going  there  just  to 
hear  him.  Now,  Ma  dear,  is  it  any  wonder  I  am  late  ?  See 


RACHEL  5 

all  the  places  we  have  been  in  just  one  "teeny,  weeny" 
hour?  We  would  have  been  traveling  yet,  but  his  hor- 
rid, little  mother  came  out  and  called  him  in.  They're 
in  the  flat  below,  the  new  people.  But  before  he  went, 
Ma  dear,  he  said  the  "cunningest"  thing.  He  said,  "Will 
you  turn  out  an'  p'ay  wif  me  aden  in  two  minutes?"  I 
nearly  hugged  him  to  death,  and  it's  a  wonder  my  hat  is 
on  my  head  at  all.  Hats  are  such  unimportant  nuisances 
anyway ! 

MRS.  LOVING:  Unimportant  nuisances!  What  ridiculous 
language  you  do  use,  Rachel !  Well,  I'm  no  prophet,  but 
I  see  very  distinctly  what  is  going  to  happen.  This  little 
brown  baby  will  be  living  here  night  and  day.  You're  not 
happy  unless  some  child  is  trailing  along  in  your  rear. 

RACHEL  (Mischievously)  :  Now,  Ma  dear,  whose  a  hypo- 
crite ?  What  ?  I  suppose  you  don't  like  children !  I  can 
tell  you  one  thing,  though,  it  won't  be  my  fault  if  he  isn't 
here  night  and  day.  Oh,  I  wish  he  were  all  mine,  every 
bit  of  him !  Ma  dear,  do  you  suppose  that  "she  woman" 
he  calls  mother  would  let  him  come  up  here  until  it  is 
time  for  him  to  go  to  bed?  I'm  going  down  there  this 
minute.  (Rises  impetuously). 

MRS.  LOVING  :  Rachel,  for  Heaven's  sake !  No !  I  am  en- 
tirely too  busy  and  tired  today  without  being  bothered 
with  a  child  romping  around  in  here. 

RACHEL  (Reluctantly  and  a  trifle  petulantly)  :  Very  well, 
then.  (For  several  moments  she  watches  her  mother, 
who  has  begun  to  sew  again.  The  displeasure  vanishes 
from  her  face).  Ma  dear! 

MRS.  LOVING:  Well. 

RACHEL:  Is  there  anything  wrong  today? 

MRS.  LOVING:  I'm  just  tired,  chickabiddy,  that's  all. 

RACHEL  (Moves  over  to  the  table.  Mechanically  takes  off 
her  hat  and  coat  and  carries  them  out  into  the  entryway 


6  RACHEL 

of  the  flat.  She  returns  and  goes  to  the  looking  glass 
over  the  fireplace  and  tucks  in  the  tendrils  of  her  hair  in 
rather  a  preoccupied  manner.  The  electric  doorbell  rings. 
She  returns  to  the  speaking  tube  in  the  vestibule.  Her 
voice  is  heard  answering)  :  Yes ! — Yes ! — No,  I'm  not 
Mrs.  Loving.  She's  here,  yes! — What?  Oh!  come  right 
up!  (Appearing  in  the  doorway).  Ma  dear,  it's  some 
man,  who  is  coming  for  Mrs.  Strong's  waist. 

MRS.  LOVING  (Pausing  and  looking  at  Rachel)  :  It  is  prob- 
ably her  son.  She  saiJ  she  would  send  for  it  this  after- 
noon. (Rachel  disappears.  A  door  is  heard  opening 
and  closing.  There  is  the  sound  of  a  man's  voice.  Rachel 
ushers  in  Mr.  John  Strong.) 

STRONG  (Bozving  pleasantly  to  Mrs.  Loving)  :  Mrs.  Loving? 
(Mrs.  Loving  bows,  puts  down  her  sewing,  rises  and  goes 
toward  Strong).  My  name  is  Strong.  My  mother  asked 
me  to  come  by  and  get  her  waist  this  afternoon.  She 
hoped  it  would  be  finished. 

MRS.  LOVING:  Yes,  Mr.  Strong,  it  is  all  ready.  If  you'll  sit 
down  a  minute,  I'll  wrap  it  up  for  you.  (She  goes  into 
hallway  leading  to  other  rooms  in  flat). 

RACHEL  (Manifestly  ill  at  ease  at  being  left  alone  with  a 
stranger;  attempting,  however,  to  be  the  polite  hostess)  : 
Do  sit  down,  Mr.  Strong.  (They  both  sit). 

RACHEL  (Nervously  after  a  pause)  :  It's  a  very  pleasant 
day,  isn't  it,  Mr.  Strong? 

STRONG  :  Yes,  very.  (He  leans  back  composedly,  his  hat 
on  his  knee,  the  faintest  expression  of  amusement  in  his 
eyes) . 

RACHEL  (After  a  pause)  :  It's  quite  a  climb  up  to  our  flat, 
don't  you  think? 

STRONG  :  Why,  no !  It  didn't  strike  me  so.  I'm  not  old 
enough  yet  to  mind  stairs. 


RACHEL  7 

RACHEL:  (Nervously)  :  Oh!  I  didn't  mean  that  you  are  old! 
Anyone  can  see  you  are  quite  young,  that  is,  of  course,  not 
too  young,  but, — (Strong  laughs  quietly).  There!  I 
don't  blame  you  for  laughing.  I'm  always  clumsy  just 
like  that. 

MRS.  LOVING  (Calling  from  the  other  room)  :  Rachel,  bring 
me  a  needle  and  the  sixty  cotton,  please. 

RACHEL:  All  right,  Ma  dear!  (Rummages  for  the  cotton 
in  the  machine  drawer,  and  upsets  several  spools  upon  the 
floor.  To  Strong) :  You  see !  I  can't  even  get  a  spool  of 
cotton  without  spilling  things  all  over  the  floor.  (Strong 
smiles,  Rachel  picks  up  the  spools  and  finally  gets  the  cot- 
ton and  needle).  Excuse  me!  (Goes  out  door  leading 
to  other  rooms.  Strong  left  to  himself,  looks  around 
casually.  The  "Golden  Stairs"  interests  him  and  the 
"Sistine  Madonna/') 

RACHEL  (Re enters,  evidently  continuing  her  function  of 
hostess)  :  We  were  talking  about  the  climb  to  our  flat, 
weren't  we?  You  see,  when  you're  poor,  you  have  to 
live  in  a  top  flat.  There  is  always  a  compensation,  though  ; 
we  have  bully — I  mean  nice  air,  better  light,  a  lovely 
view,  and  nobody  "thud-thudding"  up  and  down  over  our 
heads  night  and  day.  The  people  below  have  our  "thud- 
thudding,"  and  it  must  be  something  awful,  especially 
when  Tom  and  I  play  "Ivanhoe"  and  have  a  tournament 
up  here.  We're  entirely  too  old,  but  we  still  play.  Ma 
dear  rather  dreads  the  climb  up  three  flights,  so  Tom  and 
I  do  all  the  errands.  We  don't  mind  climbing  the  stairs, 
particularly  when  we  go  up  two  or  three  at  a  time, — that 
is — Tom  still  does.  I  can't,  Ma  dear  stopped  me. 
(Sighs).  I've  got  to  grow  up  it  seems. 

STRONG  (Evidently  amused)  :  It  is  rather  hard  being  a  girl, 
isn't  it? 


8  RACHEL 

RACHEL  :  Oh,  no !  It's  not  hard  at  all.  That's  the  trouble  ; 
they  won't  let  me  be  a  girl.  I'd  love  to  be. 

MRS.  LOVING  (Reentering  with  parcel.  She  smiles)  :  My 
chatterbox,  I  see,  is  entertaining  you,  Mr.  Strong.  I'm 
sorry  to  have  kept  you  waiting,  but  I  forgot,  I  found,  to 
sew  the  niching  in  the  neck.  I  hope  everything  is  satis- 
factory. If  it  isn't,  I'll  be  glad  to  make  any  changes. 

STRONG  (Who  has  risen  upon  her  entrance)  :  Thank  you, 
Mrs.  Loving,  I'm  sure  everything  is  all  right.  (He  takes 
the  package  and  bows  to  her  and  Rachel  He  moves 
towards  the  vestibule,  Mrs.  Loving  following  him.  She 
passes  through  the  doorway  first.  Before  leaving,  Strong 
turns  for  a  second  and  looks  back  quietly  at  Rachel.  He 
goes  out  too.  Rachel  returns  to  the  mirror,  looks  at  her 
face  for  a  second,  and  then  begins  to  touch  and  pat  her 
hair  lightly  and  delicately  here  and  there.  Mrs.  Loving 
returns). 

RACHEL  (Still  at  the  glass) :  He  was  rather  nice,  wasn't  he, 
Ma  dear? — for  a  man?  (Laughs).  I  guess  my  reason's 
a  vain  one, — he  let  me  do  all  the  talking.  (Pauses). 
Strong?  Strong?  Ma  dear,  is  his  mother  the  little  woman 
with  the  sad,  black  eyes? 

MRS.  LOVING  (Resuming  her  sewing;  sitting  before  the  ma- 
chine). Yes.  I  was  rather  curious,  I  confess,  to  see  this 
son  of  hers.  The  whole  time  I'm  fitting  her  she  talks  of 
nothing  else.  She  worships  him.  (Pauses) .  It's  rather 
a  sad  case,  I  believe.  She  is  a  widow.  Her  husband  was 
a  doctor  and  left  her  a  little  money.  She  came  up  from 
the  South  to  educate  this  boy.  Both  of  them  worked 
hard  and  the  boy  got  through  college.  Three  months  he 
hunted  for  work  that  a  college  man  might  expect  to  get. 
You  see  he  had  the  tremendous  handicap  of  being  colored. 
As  the  two  of  them  had  to  live,  one  day,  without  her 
knowing  it,  he  hired  himself  out  as  a  waiter.  He  has  been 


RACHEL  9 

one  now  for  two  years.  He  is  evidently  goodness  itself 
to  his  mother. 

RACHEL  (Slowly  and  thoughtfully}  :  Just  because  he  is 
colored!  (Pauses).  We  sing  a  song  at  school,  I  believe, 
about  "The  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave." 
What  an  amusing  nation  it  is. 

MRS.  LOVING  (Watching  Rachel  anxiously)  :  Come,  Rachel, 
you  haven't  time  for  "amusing  nations."  Remember,  you 
haven't  practised  any  this  afternoon.  And  put  your  books 
away ;  don't  leave  them  on  the  table.  You  didn't  practise 
any  this  morning  either,  did  you  ? 

RACHEL:  No,  Ma  dear, — didn't  wake  up  in  time.  (Goes  to 
the  table  and  in  an  abstracted  manner  puts  books  on  the 
bookcase;  returns  to  the  table ;  picks  up  the  roll  of  sheet 
music  she  has  brought  home  with  her;  brightens;  impul- 
sively) Ma  dear,  just  listen  to  this  lullaby.  It's  the  sweet- 
est thing.  I  was  so  "daffy"  over  it,  one  of  the  girls  at 
school  lent  it  to  me.  (She  rushes  to  the  piano  with  the 
music  and  plays  the  accompaniment  through  softly  and 
then  sings,  still  softly  and  with  great  expression,  Jessie 
Gaynor's  <( Slumber  Boat")— 


Baby's  boat's  the  silver  moon; 

Sailing  in  the  sky, 
Sailing  o'er  the  sea  of  sleep, 
While  the  clouds  float  by. 


Sail,  baby,  sail, 
Out  upon  that  sea, 

Only  don't  forget  to  sail 
Back  again  to  me. 


io  RACHEL 

Baby's  fishing  for  a  dream, 

Fishing  near  and  far, 
His  line  a  silver  moonbeam  is, 
His  bait  a  silver  star. 

Sail,  baby,  sail,  etc. 

Listen,  Ma  dear,  right  here.     Isn't  it  lovely?     (Plays  and 

sings  very  softly  and  slowly)  : 

"Only  don't  forget  to  sail 
Back  again  to  me." 

(Pauses;  in  hushed  tones)  Ma  dear,  it's  so  beautiful — it 

— it  hurts. 

MRS.  LOVING  (Quietly)  :  Yes,  dear,  it  is  pretty. 
RACHEL     (For    several    minutes    watches    her    mother's 

profile  from  the  piano  stool.    Her  expression  is  rather 

wistful)  :  Ma  dear ! 
MRS.  LOVING  :  Yes,  Rachel. 
RACHEL:  What's  the  matter? 
MRS.  LOVING  (Without  turning):  Matter!    What  do  you 

mean? 
RACHEL:  I  don't  know.     I  just  feel  something  is  not  quite 

right  with  you. 

MRS.  LOVING  :  I'm  only  tired — that's  all. 
RACHEL:  Perhaps.     But — (Watches  her  mother  a  moment 

or  two  longer;  shakes  her  head;  turns  back  to  the  piano. 

She  is  thoughtful;  looks  at  her  hands  in  her  lap).     Ma 

dear,  wouldn't  it  be  nice  if  we  could  keep  all  the  babies 

in  the  world — always  little  babies  ?  Then  they'd  be  always 

little,  and  cunning,  and  lovable ;  and  they  could  never  grow 

up,  then,  and — and — be  bad.     I'm  so  sorry  for  mothers, 

whose  little  babies — grow  up — and — and — are  bad. 
MRS.  LOVING  (Startled;  controlling  herself,  looks  at  Rachel 

anxiously,  perplexedly.     Rachel's  eyes  are  still  on  her 


RACHEL  ii 

hands.  Attempting  a  light  tone)  :  Come,  Rachel,  what 
experience  have  you  had  with  mothers  whose  babies  have 
grown  up  to  be  bad?  You — you  talk  like  an  old,  old 
woman. 

RACHEL  (Without  raising  her  eyes,  quietly)  :  I  know  I'm 
not  old ;  but,  just  the  same  I  know  that  is  true.  (Softly) 
And  I'm  so  sorry  for  the  mothers. 

MRS.  LOVING  (With  a  forced  laugh)  :  Well,  Miss  Methuse- 
lah, how  do  you  happen  to  know  all  this  ?  Mothers  whose 
babies  grow  up  to  be  bad  don't,  as  a  rule,  parade  their 
faults  before  the  world. 

RACHEL:  That's  just  it — that's  how  you  know.  They  don't 
talk  at  all. 

MRS.  LOVING  (Involuntarily) :  Oh!  (Ceases  to  sew;  looks 
at  Rachel  sharply;  she  is  plainly  worried.  There  is  a  long 
silence.  Presently  Rachel  raises  her  eyes  to  Raphael's 
"Madonna"  over  the  piano.  Her  expression  becomes 
rapt;  then,  very  softly,  her  eyes  still  on  the  picture,  she 
plays  and  sings  Nevin's  "Mighty  Lak  A  Rose1') — 

Sweetest  li'l  feller, 

Ev'rybody  knows; 
Dunno  what  to  call  him, 

But  he  mighty  lak'  a  rose ! 
Lookin*  at  his  Mammy 

Wid  eyes  so  shiny  blue, 
Mek'  you  think  that  heav'n 

Is  comin'  clost  ter  you ! 

Wen  his  dar  a  sleepin' 

In  his  li'l  place 
Think  I  see  de  angels 

Lookin'  thro1  de  lace. 
Wen  de  dark  is  fallin', 


12  RACHEL 

Wen  de  shadders  creep, 
Den  dey  comes  on  tip-toe, 
Ter  kiss  him  in  his  sleep. 

Sweetest  li'l  feller,  etc. 

(With  head  still  raised,  after  she  has  finished,  she  closes 
her  eyes.  Half  to  herself  and  slowly)  I  think  the  loveliest 
thing  of  all  the  lovely  things  in  this  world  is  just  (almost 
in  a  whisper)  being  a  mother! 

MRS.  LOVING  (Turns  and  laughs)  :  Well,  of  all  the  startling 
children,  Rachel!  I  am  getting  to  feel,  when  you're 
around  as  though  I'm  shut  up  with  dynamite.  What 
next?  (Rachel  rises ;  goes  slowly  to  her  mother,  and 
kneels  down  beside  her.  She  does  not  touch  her  mother) . 
Why  so  serious,  chickabiddy? 

RACHEL  (Slowly  and  quietly)  :  It  is  not  kind  to  laugh  at 
sacred  things.  When  you  laughed,  it  was  as  though  you 
laughed— at  God! 

MRS.  LOVING  (Startled)  :  Rachel ! 

RACHEL  (Still  quietly)  :  It's  true.  It  was  the  best  in  me 
that  said  that — it  was  God!  (Pauses).  And,  Ma  dear, 
if  I  believed  that  I  should  grow  up  and  not  be  a  mother, 
I'd  pray  to  die  now.  I've  thought  about  it  a  lot,  Ma  dear, 
and  once  I  dreamed,  and  a  voice  said  to  me — oh !  it  was  so 
real — "Rachel,  you  are  to  be  a  mother  to  little  children." 
Wasn't  that  beautiful?  Ever  since  I  have  known  how 
Mary  felt  at  the  "Annunciation."  (Almost  in  a  whisper) 
God  spoke  to  me  through  some  one,  and  I  believe.  And 
it  has  explained  so  much  to  me.  I  know  now  why  I  just 
can't  resist  any  child.  I  have  to  love  it — it  calls  me — it- 
draws  me.  I  want  to  take  care  of  it,  wash  it,  dress  it,  live 
for  it.  I  want  the  feel  of  its  little  warm  body  against 
me,  its  breath  on  my  neck,  its  hands  against  my  face. 


RACHEL  13 

(Pauses  thoughtfully  for  a  few  moments).  Ma  dear, 
here's  something  I  don't  understand :  I  love  the  little  black 
and  brown  babies  best  of  all.  There  is  something  about 
them  that — that — clutches  at  my  heart.  Why — why — 
should  they  be — oh ! — pathetic  ?  I  don't  understand.  It's 
dim.  More  than  the  other  babies,  I  feel  that  I  must  pro- 
tect them.  They're  in  danger,  but  from  what?  I  don't 
know.  I've  tried  so  hard  to  understand,  but  I  can't.  (Her 
face  radiant  and  beautiful) .  Ma  dear,  I  think  their  white 
teeth  and  the  clear  whites  of  their  big  black  eyes  and  their 
dimples  everywhere — are — are  (Breaks  off).  And,  Ma 
dear,  because  I  love  them  best,  I  pray  God  every  night  to 
give  me,  when  I  grow  up,  little  black  and  brown  babies — 
to  protect  and  guard.  (Wistfully).  Now,  Ma  dear, 
don't  you  see  why  you  must  never  laugh  at  me  again? 
Dear,  dear,  Ma  dear?  (Buries  her  head  in  her  mother's 
lap  and  sobs). 

MRS.  LOVING  (For  a  few  seconds,  sits  as  though  dazed, 
and  then  instinctively  begins  to  caress  the  head  in  her  lap. 
To  herself)  And  I  suppose  my  experience  is  every 
mother's.  Sooner  or  later — of  a  sudden  she  finds  her  own 
child  a  stranger  to  her.  (To  Rachel,  very  tenderly)  Poor 
little  girl !  Poor  little  chickabiddy ! 

RACHEL  (Raising  her  head)  :  Why  do  you  say,  "Poor  little 
girl,"  like  that?  I  don't  understand.  Why,  Ma  dear,  I 
never  saw  tears  in  your  eyes  before.  Is  it — is  it — be- 
cause you  know  the  things  I  do  not  understand?  Oh!  it 
is  that. 

MRS.  LOVING  (Simply)  :  Yes,  Rachel,  and  I  cannot  save  you. 

RACHEL:  Ma  dear,  you  frighten  me.     Save  me  from  what? 

MRS.  LOVING:  Just  life,  my  little  chickabiddy! 

RACHEL:  Is  life  so  terrible?  I  had  found  it  mostly  beautiful. 
How  can  life  be  terrible,  when  the  world  is  full  of  little 
children  ? 


14  RACHEL 

MRS.  LOVING  (Very  sadly) :  Oh,  Rachel!  Rachel! 

RACHEL:  Ma  dear,  what  have  I  said? 

MRS.  LOVING  (Forcing  a  smile)  :  Why,  the  truth,  of  course, 
Rachel.  Life  is  not  terrible  when  there  are  little  children 
— and  you — and  Tom — and  a  roof  over  our  heads — and 
work — and  food — and  clothes — and  sleep  at  night. 
(Pauses).  Rachel,  I  am  not  myself  today.  I'm  tired. 
Forget  what  I've  said.  Come,  chickabiddy,  wipe  your 
eyes  and  smile.  That's  only  an  imitation  smile,  but  it's 
better  than  none.  Jump  up  now,  and  light  the  lamp  for 
me,  will  you?  Tom's  late,  isn't  he?  I  shall  want  you  to 
go,  too,  for  the  rolls  and  pie  for  supper. 

RACHEL  (Rises  rather  wearily  and  goes  into  the  kitchenette. 
While  she  is  out  of  the  room  Mrs.  Loving  does  not  move. 
She  sits  staring  in  front  of  her.  The  room  for  some 
time  has  been  growing  dark.  Mrs.  Loving  can  just  be 
seen  when  Rachel  reenters  with  the  lamp.  She  places  it 
on  the  small  table  near  her  mother,  adjusts  it,  so  the  light 
falls  on  her  mother's  work,  and  then  lowers  the  window 
shades  at  the  windows.  She-  still  droops.  Mrs.  Loving, 
while  Rachel  is  in  the  room,  is  industrious.  Rachel  puts 
on  her  hat  and  coat  listlessly.  She  does  not  look  in  the 
glass).  Where  is  the  money,  Ma  dear?  I'm  ready. 

MRS.  LOVING:  Before  you  go,  Rachel,  just  give  a  look  at  the 
meat  and  see  if  it  is  cooking  all  right,  will  you,  dearie? 

RACHEL  (Goes  out  into  the  kitchenette  and  presently  re- 
turns) :  It's  all  right,  Ma  dear. 

MRS.  LOVING  (While  Rachel  is  out  of  the  room,  she  takes 
her  pocket-book  out  of  the  machine-drawer,  opens  it,  takes 
out  money  and  gives  it  to  Rachel  upon  her  return)  :  A 
dozen  brown  rolls,  Rachel.  Be  sure  they're  brown !  And, 
I  guess, — an  apple  pie.  As  you  and  Tom  never  seem  to 
get  enough  apple  pie,  get  the  largest  she  has.  And  here  is 
a  quarter.  Get  some  candy — any  kind  you  like,  Chicka- 


RACHEL  15 

biddy.     Let's  have  a  party  tonight,  I  feel  extravagant. 

Why,  Rachel!  why  are  you  crying? 
RACHEL:  Nothing,  dear  Ma  dear.     I'll  be  all  right  when  I 

get  in  the  air.     Goodbye !     (Rushes  out  of  the  flat.     Mrs. 

Loving  sits  idle.     Presently  the  outer  door  of  the  fiat 

opens  and  shuts  with  a  bang,  and  Tom  appears.     Mrs. 

Loving  begins  to  work  as  soon  as  she  hears  the  banging 

door). 
TOM:  'Lo,  Ma!     Where's  Sis,— out?     The  door's  off  the 

latch.     (Kisses  his  mother  and  hangs  hat  in  entryway). 
MRS.  LOVING  (Greeting  him  with  the  same  beautiful  smile 

with  which  she  greeted  Rachel)  :  Rachel  just  went  after 

the   rolls   and  pie.     She'll   be  back   in   a    few   minutes. 

You're  late,  Tommy. 
TOM  :  No,  Ma — you  forget — it's  pay  day.     ( With  decided 

shyness  and  awkwardness  he  hands  her  his  wages).  Here, 

Ma! 
MRS.  LOVING  (Proudly  counting  it)  :  But,  Tommy,  this  is 

every  bit  of  it.     You'll  need  some. 
TOM:  Not  yet!     (Constrainedly)  I  only  wish — .     Say,  Ma, 

I  hate  to  see  you  work  so  hard.     (Fiercely)  Some  day — 

some  day — .  (Breaks  off). 
MRS.  LOVING:  Son,  I'm  as  proud  as  though  you  had  given 

me  a  million  dollars. 

TOM    (Emphatically)  :  I  may  some  day, — you  see.     (Ab- 
ruptly  changing   the  subject)  :   Gee !    Ma,    I'm   hungry. 

What's  for  dinner?     Smell's  good. 
MRS.  LOVING:  Lamb  and  dumplings  and  rice. 
TOM  :  Gee !  I'm  glad  I'm  living — and  a  pie  too  ? 
MRS.  LOVING  :  Apple  pie,  Tommy. 
TOM  :  Say,  Ma,  don't  wake  me  up.     And  shall  "muzzer's" 

own  little  boy  set  the  table  ? 
MRS.  LOVING  :  Thank  you,  Son. 


16  RACHEL 

TOM  (Folds  the  green  cloth,  hangs  it  over  the  back  of  the 
arm-chair,  gets  white  table-cloth  from  kitchenette  and 
sets  the  table.  The  whole  time  he  is  whistling  blithely  a 
popular  air.  He  lights  one  of  the  gas  jets  over  the  table)  : 
Ma! 

MRS.  LOVING:  Yes,  Son. 

TOM  :  I  made  "squad"  today, — I'm  quarterback.  Five  other 
fellows  tried  to  make  it.  We'll  all  have  to  buy  new  hats, 
now. 

MRS.  LOVING  (With  surprise)  :  Buy  new  hats!    Why? 

TOM  (Makes  a  ridiculous  gesture  to  show  that  his  head  and 
hers  are  both  swelling)  :  Honest,  Ma,  I  had  to  carry  my 
hat  in  my  hand  tonight, — couldn't  even  get  it  to  perch 
aloft. 

MRS.  LOVING  (Smiling)  :  Well,  I  for  one,  Son,  am  not  going 
to  say  anything  to  make  you  more  conceited. 

TOM  :  You  don't  have  to  say  anything.  Why,  Ma,  ever 
since  I  told  you,  you  can  almost  look  down  your  own 
back  your  head  is  so  high.  What?  (Mrs.  Loving 
laughs.  The  outer  door  of  the  flat  opens  and  shuts.  Ra- 
chel's voice  is  heard). 

RACHEL  (Without)  :  My!  that  was  a  "drefful"  climb,  wasn't 
it?  Ma,  I've  got  something  here  for  you.  (Appears  in 
the  doorway  carrying  packages  and  leading  a  little  boy  by 
the  hand.  The  little  fellow  is  shy  but  smiling).  Hello, 
Tommy !  Here,  take  these  things  for  me.  This  is  Jimmy. 
Isn't  he  a  dear?  Come,  Jimmy.  (Tom  carries  the  pack- 
ages into  the  kitchenette.  Rachel  leads  Jimmy  to  Mrs. 
Loving).  Ma  dear,  this  is  my  brown  baby.  I'm  going 
to  take  him  right  down  stairs  again.  His  mother  is  as 
sweet  as  can  be,  and  let  me  bring  him  up  just  to  see  you. 
Jimmy,  this  is  Ma  dear.  (Mrs.  Loving  turns  expectantly 
to  see  the  child.  Standing  before  her,  he  raises  his  face 
to  hers  with  an  engaging  smile.  Suddenly,  without  word 


RACHEL  17 

or  warning,  her  body  stiffens;  her  hands  grip  her  sewing 
convulsively;  her  eyes  stare.  She  makes  no  sound). 

RACHEL  (Frightened)  :  Ma  dear!  What  is  the  matter?  Tom! 
Quick!  (Tom  r centers  and  goes  to  them). 

MRS.  LOVING  (Controlling  herself  with  an  effort  and  breath- 
ing hard)  :  Nothing,  dears,  nothing.  I  must  be — I  am — 
nervous  tonight.  (With  a  forced  smile)  How  do-you-do, 
Jimmy?  Now,  Rachel — perhaps — don't  you  think — 
you  had  better  take  him  back  to  his  mother?  Good-night, 
Jimmy!  (Eyes  the  child  in  a  fascinated  way  the  whole 
time  he  is  in  the  room.  Rachel,  very  much  perturbed, 
takes  the  child  out).  Tom,  open  that  window,  please! 
There!  That's  better!  (Still  breathing  deeply).  What 
a  fool  I  am! 

TOM  (Patting  his  mother  awkwardly  on  the  back)  :  You're 
all  pegged  out,  that's  the  trouble — working  entirely  too 
hard.  Can't  you  stop  for  the  night  and  go  to  bed  right 
after  supper? 

MRS.  LOVING  :  I'll  see,  Tommy  dear.  Now,  I  must  look  af- 
ter the  supper. 

TOM  :  Huh !  Well,  I  guess  not.  How  old  do  you  think 
Rachel  and  I  are  anyway?  I  see;  you  think  we'll  break 
some  of  this  be-au-tiful  Hav-i-land  china,  we  bought  at 
the  "Five  and  Ten  Cent  Store."  (To  Rachel  who  has 
just  re  entered  wearing  a  puzzled  and  worried  expression. 
She  is  without  hat  and  coat) .  Say,  Rachel,  do  you  think 
you're  old  enough  ? 

RACHEL:  Old  enough  for  what,  Tommy? 

TOM  :  To  dish  up  the  supper  for  Ma. 

RACHEL  (With  attempted  sprightliness)  :  Ma  dear  thinks 
nothing  can  go  on  in  this  little  flat  unless  she  does  it.  Let's 
show  her  a  thing  or  two.  (  They  bring  in  the  dinner.  Mrs. 
Loving  with  trembling  hands  tries  to  sew.  Tom  and  Ra- 
chel watch  her  covertly.  Presently  she  gets  up.) 


i8  RACHEL 

MRS.  LOVING:  I'll  be  back  in  a  minute,  children.  (Goes  out 
the  door  that  leads  to  the  other  rooms  of  the  flat.  Tom 
and  Rachel  look  at  each  other). 

RACHEL  (In  a  low  voice  keeping  her  eyes  on  the  door)  : 
Why  do  you  suppose  she  acted  so  strangely  about  Jimmy  ? 

TOM  :  Don't  know — nervous,  I  guess, — worn  out.  I  wish — 
(Breaks  off). 

RACHEL  (Slowly) :  It  may  be  that;  but  she  hasn't  been  her- 
self this  afternoon.  I  wonder—.  Look  out!  Here  she 
comes ! 

TOM  (In  a  whisper)  :  Liven  her  up.  (Rachel  nods.  Mrs. 
Loving  re  enters.  Both  rush  to  her  and  lead  her  to  her 
place  at  the  right  end  of  the  table.  She  smiles  and  tries 
to  appear  cheerful.  They  sit  down,  Tom  opposite  Mrs. 
Loving  and  Rachel  at  the  side  facing  front.  Mrs  Loving 
asks  grace.  Her  voice  trembles.  She  helps  the  children 
bountifully,  herself  sparingly.  Every  once  in  a  while  she 
stops  eating  and  stares  blankly  into  her  plate;  then,  re- 
membering where  she  is  suddenly,  looks  around  with  a 
start  and  goes  on  eating.  Tom  and  Rachel  appear  not  to 
notice  her). 

TOM:  Ma's  "some"  cook,  isn't  she? 

RACHEL:  Is  she!     Delmonico's  isn't  in  it. 

TOM  (Presently)  :  Say,  Rachel,  do  you  remember  that  Rey- 
nolds boy  in  the  fourth  year? 

RACHEL:  Yes.  You  mean  the  one  who  is  flat-nosed,  frec- 
kled, and  who  squints  and  sneers? 

TOM  (Looking  at  Rachel  admiringly)  :  The  same. 

RACHEL  (Vehemently)  :  I  hate  him! 

MRS.  LOVING:  Rachel,  you  do  use  such  violent  language. 
Why  hate  him? 

RACHEL:  I  do — that's  all. 

TOM  :  Ma,  if  you  saw  him  just  once,  you'd  understand.  No 
one  likes  him.  But,  then,  what  can  you  expect?  His 


RACHEL  19 

father's  in  "quod"  doing  time  for  something,  I  don't  know 
just  what.  One  of  the  fellows  says  he  has  a  real  decent 
mother,  though.  She  never  mentions  him  in  any  way, 
shape  or  form,  he  says.  Hard  on  her,  isn't  it?  Bet  I'd 
keep  my  head  shut  too; — you'd  never  get  a  yap  out  of 
me.  (Rachel  looks  up  quickly  at  her  mother;  Mrs.  Lov- 
ing stiffens  perceptibly,  but  keeps  her  eyes  on  her  plate. 
Rachel  catches  Tom's  eye;  silently  draws  his  attention  to 
their  mother;  and  shakes  her  head  warningly  at  him). 

TOM  (Continuing  hastily  and  clumsily)  :  Well,  anyway,  he 
called  me  "Nigger"  today.  If  his  face  isn't  black,  his 
eye  is. 

RACHEL:  Good!  Oh!  Why  did  you  let  the  other  one  go? 

TOM  (Grinning)  :  I  knew  he  said  things  behind  my  back; 
but  today  he  was  hopping  mad,  because  I  made  quarter- 
back. He  didn't! 

RACHEL:  Oh,  Tommy!  How  lovely!  Ma  dear,  did  you 
hear  that?  (Chants)  Our  Tommy's  on  the  team!  Our 
Tommy's  on  the  team! 

TOM  (Trying  not  to  appear  pleased)  :  Ma  dear,  what  did  I 
say  about  er — er  "capital"  enlargements? 

MRS.  LOVING  (Smiling)  :  You're  right,  Son. 

TOM  :  I  hope  you  got  that  "capital,"  Rachel.  How's  that  for 
Latin  knowledge?  Eh? 

RACHEL:  I  don't  think  much  of  your  knowledge,  Tommy 
dear;  but  (continuing  to  chant)  Our  Tommy's  on  the 
team!  Our  Tommy's  on  the  team!  Our —  (Breaks 
off).  I've  a  good  mind  to  kiss  you. 

TOM  (Threateningly)  :  Don't  you  dare. 

RACHEL  (Rising  and  going  toward  him)  :  I  will!  I  will!  I 
will! 

TOM  (Rising,  too,  and  dodging  her)  :  No,  you  don't,  young 
lady.  (A  tremendous  tussle  and  scuffle  ensues). 


20  RACHEL 

MRS.  LOVING  (Laughing)  :  For  Heaven's  sake !  children,  do 
stop  playing  and  eat  your  supper.  (They  nod  brightly 
at  each  other  behind  her  back  and  return  smiling  to  the 
table). 

RACHEL  (Sticking  out  her  tongue  at  Tom)  :  I  will ! 

TOM  (Mimicking  her)  :  You  won't! 

MRS.  LOVING:  Children!     (They  eat  for  a  time  in  silence). 

RACHEL:  Ma  dear,  have  you  noticed  Mary  Shaw  doesn't 
come  here  much  these  days? 

MRS.  LOVING  :  Why,  that's  so,  she  doesn't.  Have  you  two 
quarreled  ? 

RACHEL:  No,  Ma  dear.  (Uncomfortably).  I — think  I 
know  the  reason — but  I  don't  like  to  say,  unless  I'm  cer- 
tain. 

TOM  :  Well,  I  know.  I've  seen  her  lately  with  those  two 
girls  who  have  just  come  from  the  South.  Twice  she 
bowed  stiffly,  and  the  last  time  made  believe  she  didn't  see 
me. 

RACHEL  :  Then  you  think — ?     Oh !  I  was  afraid  it  was  that. 

TOM  (Bitterly) :  Yes— we're  "niggers"— that's  why. 

MRS.  LOVING  (Slowly  and  sadly)  :  Rachel,  that's  one  of  the 
things  I  can't  save  you  from.  I  worried  considerably 
about  Mary,  at  first — you  do  take  your  friendships  so 
seriously.  I  knew  exactly  how  it  would  end.  (Pauses). 
And  then  I  saw  that  if  Mary  Shaw  didn't  teach  you  the 
lesson — some  one  else  would.  They  don't  want  you, 
dearies,  when  you  and  they  grow  up.  You  may  have 
everything  in  your  favor — but  they  don't  dare  to  like  you. 

RACHEL  :  I  know  all  that  is  generally  true — but  I  had  hoped 
that  Mary—  (Breaks  off). 

TOM  :  Well,  I  guess  we  can  still  go  on  living  even  if  people 
don't  speak  to  us.  I'll  never  bow  to  her  again — that's 
certain. 


RACHEL  21 

MRS.  LOVING  :  But,  Son,  that  wouldn't  be  polite,  if  she  bowed 

to  you  first. 

TOM  :  Can't  help  it.     I  guess  I  can  be  blind,  too. 
MRS.  LOVING  (Wearily)-.  Well — perhaps  you  are  right — I 

don't  know.     It's  the  way  I  feel  about  it  too — but — but 

I  wish  my  son  always  to  be  a  gentleman. 
TOM  :  If  being  a  gentleman  means  not  being  a  man — I  don't 

wish  to  be  one. 
RACHEL:  Oh!  well,  perhaps  we're  wrong  about  Mary — I 

hope  we  are.     (Sighs) .    Anyway,  let's  forget  it.    Tommy 

guess  what   I've  got.     (Rises,  goes   out  into   entryway 

swiftly,  and  returns  holding  up  a  small  bag).     Ma  dear 

treated.     Guess ! 
TOM  :  Ma,  you're  a  thoroughbred.     Well,  let's  see — it's — a 

dozen  dill  pickles? 
RACHEL  :  Oh !  stop  fooling. 
TOM:  I'm  not.    Tripe? 
RACHEL:  Silly! 
TOM  :  Hog's  jowl? 

RACHEL:  Ugh!  Give  it  up — quarter-back. 
TOM:  Pig's  feet? 
RACHEL  (In  pretended  disgust)  :  Oh !  Ma  dear — send  him 

from  the  table.     It's  CANDY! 
TOM  :  Candy?    Funny,  I  never  thought  of  that !     And  I  was 

just  about  to  say  some  nice,  delicious  chitlings.     Candy! 

Well !    Well !     (Rachel  disdainfully  carries  the  candy  to 

her  mother,  returns  to  her  own  seat  with  the  bag  and  helps 

herself.     She  ignores  Tom). 
TOM  (In  an  aggrieved  voice)  :  You  see,  Ma,  how  she  treats 

me.     (In  affected  tones)  I  have  a  good  mind,  young  lady 

to  punish  you,  er — er  corporeally  speaking.     Tut!    Tut! 

I  have  a  mind  to  master  thee — I  mean — you.     Methinks 

that  if  I  should  advance  upon  you,  apply,  perchance,  two 

or  three  digits  to  your  glossy  locks  and  extract — aha! — 


22  RACHEL 

say,  a  strand — you  would  no  more  defy  me.  (He  starts 
to  rise). 

MRS.  LOVING  (Quickly  and  sharply)  :  Rachel!  give  Tom  the 
candy  and  stop  playing.  (Rachel  obeys.  They  eat  in 
silence.  The  old  depression  returns.  When  the  candy 
is  all  gone,  Rachel  pushes  her  chair  back,  and  is  just  about 
to  rise,  when  her  mother,  who  is  very  evidently  nerving 
herself  for  something,  stops  her).  Just  a  moment,  Ra- 
chel. (Pauses,  continuing  slowly  and  very  seriously). 
Tom  and  Rachel !  I  have  been  trying  to  make  up  my  mind 
for  some  time  whether  a  certain  thing  is  my  duty  or  not. 
Today — I  have  decided  it  is.  You  are  old  enough, 
now, — and  I  see  you  ought  to  be  told.  Do  you  know 
what  day  this  is?  (Both  Tom  and  Rachel  have  been 
watching  their  mother  intently).  It's  the  sixteenth  of 
October.  Does  that  mean  anything  to  either  of  you? 

TOM  and  RACHEL  (Wonderingly) :  No. 

MRS.  LOVING  (Looking  at  both  of  them  thoughtfully,  half 
to  herself)  :  No — I  don't  know  why  it  should.  (Slowly) 
Ten  years  ago — today — your  father  and  your  half-brother 
died. 

TOM  :  I  do  remember,  now,  that  you  told  us  it  was  in  Oc- 
tober. 

RACHEL  (With  a  sigh)  :  That  explains — today. 

MRS.  LOVING:  Yes,  Rachel.  (Pauses).  Do  you  know- 
how  they — died? 

TOM  and  RACHEL:  Why,  no. 

MRS.  LOVING:  Did  it  ever  strike  you  as  strange — that  they 
— died —  the  same  day? 

TOM  :  Well,  yes. 

RACHEL  :  We  often  wondered,  Tom  and  I ;  but — but  some- 
how we  never  quite  dared  to  ask  you.  You — you — al- 
ways refused  to  talk  about  them,  you  know,  Ma  dear. 


RACHEL  23 

MRS.  LOVING:  Did  you  think — that — perhaps — the  reason — 
I — I — wouldn't  talk  about  them — was — because,  because 
— I  was  ashamed — of  them?  (Tom  and  Rachel  look  un- 
comfortable). 

RACHEL:  Well,  Ma  dear — we — we — did — wonder. 

MRS.  LOVING  (Questioningly)  :  And  you  thought? 

RACHEL  (Haltingly)  :  W-e-1-1— 

MRS.  LOVING  (Sharply)  :  Yes? 

TOM  :  Oh !  come,  now,  Rachel,  you  know  we  haven't 
bothered  about  it  at  all.  Why  should  we?  We've  been 
happy. 

MRS.  LOVING:  But  when  you  have  thought — you've  been 
ashamed?  (Intensely)  Have  you? 

TOM  :  Now,  Ma,  aren't  you  making  a  lot  out  of  nothing? 

MRS.  LOVING  (Slowly)  :  No.  (Half  to  herself)  You  evade 
— both — of  you.  You  have  been  ashamed.  And  I  never 
dreamed  until  today  you  could  take  it  this  way.  How 
blind — how  almost  criminally  blind,  I  have  been. 

RACHEL  (Tremulously)  :  Oh!  Ma  dear,  don't!  (Tom  and 
Rachel  watch  their  mother  anxiously  and  uncomfortably. 
Mrs.  Loving  is  very  evidently  nerving  herself  for  some- 
thing). 

MRS.  LOVING  (Very  slowly,  with  restrained  emotion)  :  Tom 
— and  Rachel ! 

TOM  :  Ma ! 

RACHEL  :  Ma  dear !    (A  tense,  breathless  pause) . 

MRS.  LOVING  (Bracing  herself):  They  —  they  —  were 
lynched!! 

TOM  and  RACHEL  (In  a  whisper)  :  Lynched! 

MRS.  LOVING  (Slowly,  laboring  under  strong  but  restrained 
emotion)  :  Yes — by  Christian  people — in  a  Christian  land. 
We  found  out  afterwards  they  were  all  church  members 
in  good  standing — the  best  people.  (A  silence).  Your 


24  RACHEL 

father  was  a  man  among  men.  He  was  a  fanatic.  He 
was  a  Saint ! 

TOM  (Breathing  with  difficulty)  :  Ma — can  you — will  you — 
tell  us — about  it? 

MRS.  LOVING:  I  believe  it  to  be  my  duty.  (A  silence). 
When  I  married  your  father  I  was  a  widow.  My  little 
George  was  seven  years  old.  From  the  very  beginning  he 
worshiped  your  father.  He  followed  him  around — just 
like  a  little  dog.  All  children  were  like  that  with  him.  I 
myself  have  never  seen  anybody  like  him.  "Big"  seems 
to  fit  him  better  than  any  other  word.  He  was  big- 
bodied — big-souled.  His  loves  were  big  and  his 
hates.  You  can  imagine,  then,  how  the  wrongs  of  the 
Negro — ate  into  his  soul.  (Pauses).  He  was  utterly 
fearless.  (A  silence).  He  edited  and  owned,  for  several 
years,  a  small  negro  paper.  In  it  he  said  a  great  many 
daring  things.  I  used  to  plead  with  him  to  be  more  care- 
ful. I  was  always  afraid  for  him.  For  a  long  time,  noth- 
ing happened — he  was  too  important  to  the  community. 
And  then — one  night — ten  years  ago — a  mob  made  up  of 
the  respectable  people  in  the  town  lynched  an  innocent 
black  man — and  what  was  worse — they  knew  him  to  be 
innocent.  A  white  man  was  guilty.  I  never  saw  your 
father  so  wrought  up  over  anything:  he  couldn't  eat;  he 
couldn't  sleep;  he  brooded  night  and  day  over  it.  And 
then — realizing  fully  the  great  risk  he  was  running,  al- 
though I  begged  him  not  to — and  all  his  friends  also — he 
deliberately  and  calmly  went  to  work  and  published  a 
most  terrific  denunciation  of  that  mob.  The  old  prophets 
in  the  Bible  were  not  more  terrible  than  he.  A  day  or 
two  later,  he  received  an  anonymous  letter,  very  evidently 
from  an  educated  man,  calling  upon  him  to  retract  his 
words  in  the  next  issue.  If  he  refused  his  life  was 
threatened.  The  next  week's  issue  contained  an  arraign- 


RACHEL  25 

ment  as  frightful,  if  not  more  so,  than  the  previous  one. 
Each  word  was  white-hot,  searing.  That  night,  some 
dozen  masked  men  came  to  our  house. 

RACHEL  (Moaning)  :  Oh,  Ma  dear!     Ma  dear! 

MRS.  LOVING  (Too  absorbed  to  hear)  :  We  were  not  asleep 
— your  father  and  I.  They  broke  down  the  front  door 
and  made  their  way  to  our  bedroom.  Your  father  kissed 
me — and  took  up  his  revolver.  It  was  always  loaded. 
They  broke  down  the  door.  (A  silence.  She  continues 
slowly  and  quietly)  I  tried  to  shut  my  eyes — I  could  not. 
Four  masked  men  fell — they  did  not  move  any  more — 
after  a  little.  (Pauses).  Your  father  was  finally  over- 
powered and  dragged  out.  In  the  hall — my  little  seven- 
teen-year-old George  tried  to  rescue  him.  Your  father 
begged  him  not  to  interfere.  He  paid  no  attention.  It 
ended  in  their  dragging  them  both  out.  (Pauses).  My 
little  George — was — a  man!  (Controls  herself  with  an 
effort).  He  never  made  an  outcry.  His  last  words  to 
me  were:  "Ma,  I  am  glad  to  go  with  Father."  I  could 
only  nod  to  him.  (Pauses).  While  they  were  dragging 
them  down  the  steps,  I  crept  into  the  room  where  you 
were.  You  were  both  asleep.  Rachel,  I  remember,  was 
smiling.  I  knelt  down  by  you — and  covered  my  ears  with 
my  hands — and  waited.  I  could  not  pray — I  couldn't  for 
a  long  time — afterwards.  (A  silence).  It  was  very  still 
when  I  finally  uncovered  my  ears.  The  only  sounds  were 
the  faint  rustle  of  leaves  and  the  "tap-tapping  of  the  twig 
of  a  tree"  against  the  window.  I  hear  it  still — sometimes 
in  my  dreams.  It  was  the  tree — where  they  were.  (A 
silence).  While  I  had  knelt  there  waiting — I  had  made 
up  my  mind  what  to  do.  I  dressed  myself  and  then  I 
woke  you  both  up  and  dressed  you.  (Pauses).  We  set 
forth.  It  was  a  black,  still  night.  Alternately  dragging 
you  along  and  carrying  you — I  walked  five  miles  to  the 


26  RACHEL 

house  of  some  friends.  They  took  us  in,  and  we  remained 
there  until  I  had  seen  my  dead  laid  comfortably  at  rest. 
They  lent  me  money  to  come  North — I  couldn't  bring  you 
up — in  the  South.  (A  silence).  Always  remember  this: 
There  never  lived  anywhere — or  at  any  time — any  two 
whiter  or  more  beautiful  souls.  God  gave  me  one  for  a 
husband  and  one  for  a  son  and  I  am  proud.  (Brokenly) 
You — must — be — proud — too.  (A  long  silence.  Mrs. 
Loving  bows  her  head  in  her  hands.  Tom  controls  him- 
self with  an  effort.  Rachel  creeps  softly  to  her  mother, 
kneels  beside  her  and  lifts  the  hem  of  her  dress  to  her 
lips.  She  does  not  dare  touch  her.  She  adores  her  with 
her  eyes). 

MRS.  LOVING  (Presently  raising  her  head  and  glancing  at 
the  clock)  :  Tom,  it's  time,  now,  for  you  to  go  to  work. 
Rachel  and  I  will  finish  up  here. 

TOM  (Still  laboring  under  great  emotion  goes  out  into  the 
entryway  and  comes  back  and  stands  in  the  doorway  with 
his  cap.  He  twirls  it  around  and  around  nervously)  :  1 
want  you  to  know,  Ma,  before  I  go — how — how  proud  I 
am.  Why,  I  didn't  believe  two  people  could  be  like  that 
— and  live.  And  then  to  find  out  that  one — was  your 
own  father — and  one — your  own  brother. — It's  wonder- 
ful !  I'm — not  much  yet,  Ma,  but — I've — I've  just  got  to 
be  something  now.  (Breaks  off).  (His  face  becomes 
distorted  with  passion  and  hatred).  When  I  think — 
when  I  think — of  those  devils  with  white  skins — living 
somewhere  today — living  and  happy — I — see — red!  I — 
I — goodbye!  (Rushes  out,  the  door  bangs). 

MRS.  LOVING  (Half  to  herself)  :  I  was  afraid — of  just  that. 
I  wonder — if  I  did  the  wise  thing — after  all. 

RACHEL  (With  a  gesture  infinitely  tender,  puts  her  arms 
around  her  mother)  :  Yes,  Ma  dear,  you  did.  And,  here- 
after, Tom  and  I  share  and  share  alike  with  you.  To 


RACHEL  27 

think,  Ma  dear,  of  ten  years  of  this — all  alone.  It's 
wicked!  (A  short  silence). 

MRS.  LOVING:  And,  Rachel,  about  that  dear,  little  boy, 
Jimmy. 

RACHEL:  Now,  Ma  dear,  tell  me  tomorrow.  You've  stood 
enough  for  one  day. 

MRS.  LOVING:  No,  it's  better  over  and  done  with — all  at 
once.  If  I  had  seen  that  dear  child  suddenly  any  other 
day  than  this — I  might  have  borne  it  better.  When  he 
lifted  his  little  face  to  me — and  smiled — for  a  moment — 
I  thought  it  was  the  end — of  all  things.  Rachel,  he  is  the 
image  of  my  boy — my  George! 

RACHEL:  Ma  dear! 

MRS.  LOVING:  And,  Rachel — it  will  hurt — to  see  him  again. 

RACHEL:  I  understand,  Ma  dear.  (A  silence.  Suddenly) 
Ma  dear,  I  am  beginning  to  see — to  understand — so  much. 
(Slowly  and  thoughtfully)  Ten  years  ago,  all  things  being 
equal,  Jimmy  might  have  been — George?  Isn't  that  so? 

MRS.  LOVING  :  Why — yes,  if  I  understand  you. 

RACHEL:!  guess  that  doesn't  sound  very  clear.  It's  only 
getting  clear  to  me,  little  by  little.  Do  you  mind  my 
thinking  out  loud  to  you? 

MRS.  LOVING  :  No,  chickabiddy. 

RACHEL:  If  Jimmy  went  South  now — and  grew  up — he 
might  be — a  George? 

MRS.  LOVING:  Yes. 

RACHEL:  Then,  the  South  is  full  of  tens,  hundreds,  thou- 
sands of  little  boys,  who,  one  day  may  be — and  some  of 
them  with  certainty — Georges? 

MRS.  LOVING  :  Yes,  Rachel. 

RACHEL:  And  the  little  babies,  the  dear,  little,  helpless 
babies,  being  born  today — now — and  those  who  will  be, 
tomorrow,  and  all  the  tomorrows  to  come — have  that 
sooner  or  later  to  look  forward  to?  They  will  laugh  and 


28  RACHEL 

play  and  sing  and  be  happy  and  grow  up,  perhaps,  and  be 
ambitious — just  for  that? 

MRS.  LOVING:  Yes,  Rachel. 

RACHEL:  Then,  everywhere,  everywhere,  throughout  the 
South,  there  are  hundreds  of  dark  mothers  who  live  in 
fear,  terrible,  suffocating  fear,  whose  rest  by  night  is 
broken,  and  whose  joy  by  day  in  their  babies  on  their 
hearts  is  three  parts — pain.  Oh,  I  know  this  is  true — 
for  this  is  the  way  I  should  feel,  if  I  were  little  Jimmy's 
mother.  How  horrible !  Why — it  would  be  more  merci- 
ful— to  strangle  the  little  things  at  birth.  And  so  this 
nation — this  white  Christian  nation — has  deliberately  set 
its  curse  upon  the  most  beautiful — the  most  holy  thing  in 
life — motherhood !  Why — it — makes — you  doubt — God ! 

MRS.  LOVING  :  Oh,  hush !  little  girl.     Hush ! 

RACHEL  (Suddenly  with  a  great  cry}  :  Why,  Ma  dear,  you 
know.  You  were  a  mother,  George's  mother.  So,  this  is 
what  it  means.  Oh,  Ma  dear!  Ma  dear!  (Faints  in 
her  mother's  arms). 


ACT  II 


ACT  II. 

TIME:  October  sixteenth,  four  years  later;  seven  o'clock  in 
the  morning. 

SCENE:  The  same  room.  There  have  been  very  evident 
improvements  made.  The  room  is  not  so  bare;  it  is 
cosier.  On  the  shelf,  before  each  window,  are  potted 
red  geraniums.  At  the  windows  are  green  denim  dra- 
pery curtains  covering  fresh  white  dotted  Swiss  inner 
curtains.  At  each  doorway  are  green  denim  portieres. 
On  the  wall  between  the  kitchenette  and  the  entrance 
to  the  outer  rooms  of  the  flat,  a  new  picture  is  hanging, 
Millet's  <(The  Man  With  the  Hoe."  Hanging  against 
the  side  of  the  run  that  faces  front  is  Watts's  "Hope." 
There  is  another  easy-chair  at  the  left  front.  The  table 
in  the  center  is  covered  with  a  white  table-cloth.  A 
small  asparagus  fern  is  in  the  middle  of  this.  When 
the  curtain  rises  there  is  the  clatter  of  dishes  in  the 
kitchenette.  Presently  Rachel  enters  with  dishes  and 
silver  in  her  hands.  She  is  clad  in  a  bungalow  apron. 
She  is  noticeably  all  of  four  years  older.  She  frowns 
as  she  sets  the  table.  There  is  a  set  expression  about 
the  mouth.  A  child's  voice  is  heard  from  the  rooms 
within. 

JIMMY  (Still  unseen)  :  Ma  Rachel! 

RACHEL  (Pauses  and  smiles)  :  What  is  it,  Jimmy  boy? 

JIMMY  (Appearing  in  rear  doorway,  half-dressed,  breath- 
less, and  tremendously  excited  over  something.  Rushes 
toward  Rachel)  :  Three  guesses !  Three  guesses !  Ma 
Rachel ! 


32  RACHEL 

RACHEL  (Her  whole  face  softening)  :  Well,  let's  see — 
maybe  there  is  a  circus  in  town. 

JIMMY:  No  siree!  (In  a  sing-song)  You're  not  right! 
You're  not  right! 

RACHEL:  Well,  maybe  Ma  Loving's  going  to  take  you 
somewhere. 

JIMMY:  No!  (Vigorously  shaking  his  head)  It's — 

RACHEL  (Interrupting  quickly)  You  said  I  could  have  three 
guesses,  honey.  I've  only  had  two. 

JIMMY:  I  thought  you  had  three.     How  many  are  three? 

RACHEL  (Counting  on  her  fingers)  :  One!  Two!  Three! 
I've  only  had  one!  two! — See?  Perhaps  Uncle  Tom 
is  going  to  give  you  some  candy. 

JIMMY  (Dancing  up  and  down):  No!  No!  No! 
(Catches  his  breath)  I  leaned  over  the  bath-tub,  way 
over,  and  got  hold  of  the  chain  with  the  button  on  the 
end,  and  dropped  it  into  the  little  round  place  in  the 
bottom.  And  then  I  runned  lots  and  lots  of  water  in  the 
tub  and  climbed  over  and  fell  in  splash !  just  like  a  big 
stone;  (Loudly)  and  took  a  bath  all  by  myself  alone. 

RACHEL  (Laughing  and  hugging  him)  :  All  by  yourself, 
honey?  You  ran  the  water,  too,  boy,  not  "runned"  it. 
What  I  want  to  know  is,  where  was  Ma  Loving  all  this 
time? 

JIMMY:  I  stole  in  "creepy-creep"  and  looked  at  Ma  Loving 
and  she  was  awful  fast  asleep.  (Proudly)  Ma  Rachel, 
I'm  a  "nawful,"  big  boy  now,  aren't  I?  I  are  almost  a 
man,  aren't  I? 

RACHEL  :  Oh !  Boy,  I'm  getting  tired  of  correcting  you — "I 
am  almost  a  man,  am  I  not?"  Jimmy,  boy,  what  will  Ma 
Rachel  do,  if  you  grow  up?  Why,  I  won't  have  a  little 
boy  any  more!  Honey,  you  mustn't  grow  up,  do  you 
hear?  You  mustn't. 


RACHEL  33 

JIMMY:  Oh,  yes,  I  must;  and  you'll  have  me  just  the  same, 
Ma  Rachel.  I'm  going  to  be  a  policeman  and  make  lots 
of  money  for  you  and  Ma  Loving  and  Uncle  Tom,  and 
I'm  going  to  buy  you  some  trains  and  fire-engines,  and 
little,  cunning  ponies,  and  some  rabbits,  and  some  great 
'normous  banks  full  of  money — lots  of  it.  And  then,  we 
are  going  to  live  in  a  great,  big  castle  and  eat  lots  of  ice 
cream,  all  the  time,  and  drink  lots  and  lots  of  nice  pink 
lemonade. 

RACHEL  :  What  a  generous  Jimmy  boy !  (Hugs  him} .  Be- 
fore I  give  you  "morning  kiss,"  I  must  see  how  clean  my 
boy  is.  (Inspects  teeth,  ears  and  neck).  Jimmy,  you're 
sweet  and  clean  enough  to  eat.  (Kisses  him;  he  tries  to 
strangle  her  with  hugs) .  Now  the  hands.  Oh !  Jimmy, 
look  at  those  nails!  Oh!  Jimmy!  (Jimmy  wriggles  and 
tries  to  get  his  hands  away).  Honey,  get  my  file  off  of 
my  bureau  and  go  to  Ma  Loving;  she  must  be  awake  by 
this  time.  Why,  honey,  what's  the  matter  with  your 
feet? 

JIMMY.  I  don't  know.  I  thought  they  looked  kind  of 
queer,  myself.  What's  the  matter  with  them? 

RACHEL  (Laughing)  :  You  have  your  shoes  on  the  wrong 
feet. 

JIMMY  (Bursts  out  laughing)  :  Isn't  that  most  'normously 
funny?  I'm  a  case,  aren't  I — (pauses  thoughtfully)  I 
mean — am  I  not,  Ma  Rachel? 

RACHEL:  Yes,  honey,  a  great  big  case  of  molasses.  Come, 
you  must  hurry  now,  and  get  dressed.  You  don't  want 
to  be  late  for  school,  you  know. 

JIMMY  :  Ma  Rachel !  (Shyly)  I — I  have  been  making  some- 
thing for  you  all  the  morning — ever  since  I  waked  up. 
It's  awful  nice.  It's — stoop  down,  Ma  Rachel,  please — 
a  great,  big  (puts  both  arms  about  her  neck  and  gives 
her  a  noisy  kiss.  Rachel  kisses  him  in  return,  then  pushes 


34  RACHEL 

his  head  back.  For  a  long  moment  they  look  at  each 
other;  and,  then,  laughing  joyously,  he  makes  believe  he 
is  a  horse,  and  goes  prancing  out  of  the  room.  Rachel, 
with  a  softer,  gentler  expression,  continues  setting  the 
table.  Presently,  Mrs.  Loving,  bent  and  worn-looking, 
appears  in  the  doorway  in  the  rear.  She  limps  a  trifle.} 

MRS.  LOVING  :  Good  morning,  dearie.  How's  my  little  girl, 
this  morning?  (Looks  around  the  room).  Why,  where's 
Tom?  I  was  certain  I  heard  him  running  the  water  in 
the  tub,  sometime  ago.  (Limps  into  the  room). 

RACHEL  (Laughing)  :  Tom  isn't  up  yet.  Have  you  seen 
Jimmy  ? 

MRS.  LOVING  :  Jimmy  ?  No.  I  didn't  know  he  was  awake, 
even. 

RACHEL  (Going  to  her  mother  and  kissing  her):  Well! 
What  do  you  think  of  that !  I  sent  the  young  gentleman 
to  you,  a  few  minutes  ago,  for  help  with  his  nails.  He 
is  very  much  grown  up  this  morning,  so  I  suppose  that 
explains  why  he  didn't  come  to  you.  Yesterday,  all  day, 
you  know,  he  was  a  puppy.  No  one  knows  what  he  will 
be  by  tomorrow.  All  of  this,  Ma  dear,  is  preliminary  to 
telling  you  that  Jimmy  boy  has  stolen  a  march  on  you, 
this  morning. 

MRS.  LOVING  :  Stolen  a  march !     How  ? 

RACHEL:  It  appears  that  he  took  his  bath  all  by  himself 
and,  as  a  result,  he  is  so  conceited,  peacocks  aren't  in  it 
with  him. 

MRS.  LOVING:  I  heard  the  water  running  and  thought,  of 
course,  it  was  Tom.  Why,  the  little  rascal!  I  must  go 
and  see  how  he  has  left  things.  I  was  just  about  to  wake 
him  up. 

RACHEL:  Rheumatism's  not  much  better  this  morning,  Ma 
dear.  (Confronting  her  mother)  Tell  me  the  truth,  now, 
did  you  or  did  you  not  try  that  liniment  I  bought  you  yes- 
terday ? 


RACHEL  35 

MRS.  LOVING  (Guiltily)  :  Well,  Rachel,  you  see — it  was  this 
way,  I  was— I  was  so  tired,  last  night, — I — I  really  for- 
got it. 

RACHEL:  I  thought  as  much.     Shame  on  you! 

MRS.  LOVING  :  As  soon  as  I  walk  around  a  bit  it  will  be  all 
right.  It  always  is.  It's  bad,  when  I  first  get  up — that's 
all.  I'll  be  spry  enough  in  a  few  minutes.  (Limps  to 
the  door;  pauses)  Rachel,  I  don't  know  why  the  thought 
should  strike  me,  but  how  very  strangely  things  turn  out. 
If  any  one  had  told  me  four  years  ago  that  Jimmy  would 
be  living  with  us,  I  should  have  laughed  at  him.  Then  it 
hurt  to  see  him;  now  it  would  hurt  not  to.  (Softly) 
Rachel,  sometimes — I  wonder — if,  perhaps,  God — hasn't 
relented  a  little — and  given  me  back  my  boy, — my  George. 

RACHEL:  The  whole  thing  was  strange,  wasn't  it? 

MRS.  LOVING:  Yes,  God's  ways  are  strange  and  often  very 
beautiful ;  perhaps  all  would  be  beautiful — if  we  only  un- 
derstood. 

RACHEL:  God's  ways  are  certainly  very  mysterious.  Why, 
of  all  the  people  in  this  apartment-house,  should  Jimmy's 
father  and  mother  be  the  only  two  to  take  the  smallpox, 
and  the  only  two  to  die.  It's  queer ! 

MRS.  LOVING:  It  doesn't  seem  like  two  years  ago,  does  it? 

RACHEL:  Two  years,  Ma  dear!  Why  it's  three  the  third  of 
January. 

MRS.  LOVING  :  Are  you  sure,  Rachel  ? 

RACHEL  (Gently)  :  I  don't  believe  I  could  ever  forget  that, 
Ma  dear. 

MRS.  LOVING:  No,  I  suppose  not.  That  is  one  of  the  dif- 
ferences between  youth  and  old  age — youth  attaches  tre- 
mendous importance  to  dates, — old  age  does  not. 

RACHEL  (Quickly)  :  Ma  dear,  don't  talk  like  that.  You're 
not  old. 


36  RACHEL 

MRS.  LOVING  :  Oh !  yes,  I  am,  dearie.  It's  sixty  long  years 
since  I  was  born;  and  I  am  much  older  than  that,  much 
older. 

RACHEL:  Please,  Ma  dear,  please! 

MRS.  LOVING  (Smiling)  :  Very  well,  dearie,  I  won't  say  it 
any  more.  (A  pause).  By  the  way, — how — does  Tom 
strike  you,  these  days? 

RACHEL  (Avoiding  her  mother's  eye)  :  The  same  old,  ban- 
tering, cheerful  Tom.  Why? 

MRS.  LOVING  :  I  know  he's  all  that,  dearie,  but  it  isn't  pos- 
sible for  him  to  be  really  cheerful.  (Pauses;  goes  on 
wistfully)  When  you  are  little,  we  mothers  can  kiss  away 
all  the  trouble,  but  when  you  grow  up — and  go  out — into 
the  world — and  get  hurt — we  are  helpless.  There  is  noth- 
ing we  can  do. 

RACHEL  :  Don't  worry  about  Tom,  Ma  dear,  he's  game.  He 
doesn't  show  the  white  feather. 

MRS.  LOVING  :  Did  you  see  him,  when  he  came  in,  last  night  ? 

RACHEL:  Yes. 

MRS.  LOVING:  Had  he  had — any  luck? 

RACHEL:  No.  (Firmly)  Ma  dear,  we  may  as  well  face  it — 
it's  hopeless,  I'm  afraid. 

MRS.  LOVING  :  I'm  afraid — you  are  right.  (Shakes  her  head 
sadly)  Well,  I'll  go  and  see  how  Jimmy  has  left  things 
and  wake  up  Tom,  if  he  isn't  awake  yet.  It's  the  waking 
up  in  the  mornings  that's  hard.  (Goes  limping  out  rear 
door.  Rachel  frowns  as  she  continues  going  back  and 
forth  between  the  kitchenette  and  the  table.  Presently 
Tom  appears  in  the  door  at  the  rear.  He  watches  Rachel 
several  moments  before  he  speaks  or  enters.  Rachel  looks 
grim  enough). 

TOM  (Entering  and  smiling)  :  Good-morning,  "Merry  Sun- 
shine" !  Have  you,  perhaps,  been  taking  a — er — pro- 
longed draught  of  that  very  delightful  beverage — vine- 


RACHEL  37 

gar?  (Rachel,  zvith  a  knife  in  her  hand,  looks  up  un- 
smiling. In  pretended  fright)  I  take  it  all  back,  I'm  sure. 
May  I  request,  humbly,  that  before  I  press  my  chaste, 
morning  salute  upon  your  forbidding  lips,  that  you — that 
you — that  you — er — in  some  way  rid  yourself  of  that — 
er — knife?  (Bows  as  Rachel  puts  it  down).  I  thank 
you.  (He  comes  to  her  and  tips  her  head  back;  gently) 
What's  the  matter  with  my  little  Sis? 

RACHEL  (Her  face  softening) :  Tommy  dear,  don't  mind  me. 
I'm  getting  wicked,  I  guess.  At  present  I  feel  just  like — 
—like  curdled  milk.  Once  upon  a  time,  I  used  to  have 
quite  a  nice  disposition,  didn't  I,  Tommy? 

TOM  (Smiling)  :  Did  you,  indeed!  I'm  not  going  to  flatter 
you.  Well,  brace  yourself,  old  lady.  Ready,  One !  Two ! 
Three !  Go !  (Kisses  her,  then  puts  his  hands  on  either 
side  of  her  face,  and  raising  it,  looks  down  into  it). 
You're  a  pretty,  decent  little  sister,  Sis,  that's  what  T. 
Loving  thinks  about  it;  and  he  knows  a  thing  or  two. 
(Abruptly  looking  around)  Has  the  paper  come  yet? 

RACHEL:  I  haven't  looked,  it  must  have,  though,  by  this 
time.  (Tom,  hands  in  his  pockets,  goes  into  the  vestibule. 
He  whistles.  The  outer  door  opens  and  closes,  and  pres- 
ently he  saunters  back,  newspaper  in  hand.  He  lounges 
carelessly  in  the  arm-chair  and  looks  at  Rachel) . 

TOM  :  May  T.  Loving  be  of  any  service  to  you? 

RACHEL:  Service!     How? 

TOM  :  May  he  run,  say,  any  errands,  set  the  table,  cook  the 
break  fast  ?  Anything  ? 

RACHEL  (Watching  the  lazy  figure)  :  You  look  like  working. 

TOM  (Grinning)  :  It's  at  least— polite— to  offer. 

RACHEL:  You  can't  do  anything;  I  don't  trust  you  to  do  it 
right.  You  may  just  sit  there,  and  read  your  paper— 
and  try  to  behave  yourself. 


38  RACHEL 

TOM  (In  affectedly  meek  tones)  :  Thank  you,  ma'am. 
(Opens  the  paper,  but  does  not  read.  Jimmy  presently 
enters  riding  around  the  table  on  a  cane.  Rachel  peeps  in 
from  the  kitchenette  and  smiles.  Tom  puts  down  his 
paper).  'Lo!  Big  Fellow,  what's  this? 

JIMMY  (Disgustedly)  :  How  can  I  hear?  I'm  miles  and 
miles  away  yet.  (Prances  around  and  around  the  room; 
presently  stops  near  Torn,  attempting  a  gruff  voice)  Good- 
morning  ! 

TOM  (Lowering  his  paper  again)  :  Bless  my  stars !  Who's 
this?  Well,  if  it  isn't  Mr.  Mason!  How-do-you-do,  Mr. 
Mason?  That's  a  beautiful  horse  you  have  there.  He 
limps  a  trifle  in  his  left,  hind,  front  foot,  though. 

JIMMY:  He  doesn't! 

TOM  :  He  does ! 

JIMMY  (Fiercely) :  He  doesn't! 

TOM  (As  fiercely)  :  I  say  he  does! 

MRS.  LOVING  (Appearing  in  the  doorway  in  the  rear)  :  For 
Heaven's  sake !  What  is  this  ?  Good-morning,  Tommy. 

TOM  (Rising  and  going  toward  his  mother,  Jimmy  following 
astride  of  the  cane  in  his  rear)  :  Good-morning,  Ma. 
(Kisses  her;  lays  his  head  on  her  shoulder  and  makes 
believe  he  is  crying;  in  a  high  falsetto)  Ma!  Jimmy  says 
his  horse  doesn't  limp  in  his  hind,  front  right  leg,  and  I 
say  he  does. 

JIMMY  (Throws  his  cane  aside,  rolls  on  the  floor  and  kicks 
up  his  heels.  He  roars  with  laughter)  :  I  think  Uncle 
Tom  is  funnier  than  any  clown  in  the  "Kickus." 

TOM  (Raising  his  head  and  looking  down  at  Jimmy;  Rachel 
stands  in  the  kitchenette  doorway)  :  In  the  what,  Jimmy? 

JIMMY:  In  the  "kickus,"  of  course. 

TOM:  "Kickus"!  "Kickus"!  Oh,  Lordy!  (Tom  and  Ra- 
chel shriek  with  laughter;  Mrs.  Loving  looks  amused; 
Jimmy,  very  much  affronted,  gets  upon  his  feet  again. 


RACHEL  39 

Tom  leans  over  and  swings  Jimmy  high  in  the  air).    Boy, 

you'll  be  the  death  of  me  yet.     Circus,  son!     Circus! 
JIMMY  (From  on  high,  soberly  and  with  injured  dignity)  : 

Well,  I  thinks  "Kickus"  and  circus  are  very  much  alike. 

Please  put  me  down. 
RACHEL  (From  the  doorway)  :  We  laugh,  honey,  because 

we  love  you  so  much. 
JIMMY  (Somewhat  mollified,  to  Tom)  :  Is  that  so,  Uncle 

Tom? 
TOM  :  Surest  thing  in  the  world !     (Severely)   Come,  get 

down,  young  man.     Don't  you  know  you'll  wear  my  arms 

out?     Besides,  there  is  something  in  my  lower  vest  pocket, 

that's  just  dying  to  come  to  you.     Get  down,  I  say. 
JIMMY    (Laughing) :   How   can  I   get  down?     (Wriggles 

around) . 
TOM:  How   should  I   know?     Just  get   down,  of   course. 

(Very  suddenly  puts  Jimmy  down  on  his  feet.     Jimmy 

tries  to  climb  up  over  him). 
JIMMY:  Please  sit  down,  Uncle  Tom? 
TOM   (In  feigned  surprise)  :  Sit  down!     What  for? 
JIMMY  (Pummeling  him  with  his  little  fists,  loudly)  :  Why, 

you  said  there  was  something  for  me  in  your  pocket. 
TOM  (Sitting  dozvn)  :  So  I  did.  How  forgetful  I  ami 
JIMMY  (Finding  a  bright,  shiny  penny,  shrieks)  :  Oh!  Oh! 

Oh!     (Climbs  up  and  kisses  Tom  noisily). 
TOM  :  Why,  Jimmy !    You  embarrass  me.     My !  My ! 
JIMMY:  What  is  'barrass? 
TOM  :  You  make  me  blush. 
JIMMY:  What's  that? 
MRS.   LOVING:    Come,    come,    children!     Rachel    has    the 

breakfast  on  the  table.     (Tom  sits  in  Jimmy's  place  and 

Jimmy  tries  to  drag  him  out). 
TOM  :  What's  the  matter,  now  ? 
JIMMY:  You're  in  my  place. 


40  RACHEL 

TOM  :  Well,  can't  you  sit  in  mine? 

JIMMY  (Wistfully) :  I  wants  to  sit  by  my  Ma  Rachel. 

TOM  :  Well,  so  do  I. 

RACHEL:  Tom,  stop  teasing  Jimmy.     Honey,  don't  you  let 

him  bother  you ;  ask  him  please  prettily. 
JIMMY:  Please  prettily,  Uncle  Tom. 
TOM:  Oh!  well  then.     (Gets  up  and  takes  his  own  place. 

They  sit  as  they  did  in  Act  I.  only  Jimmy  sits  between 

Tom,  at  the  endt  and  Rachel). 
JIMMY  (Loudly):  Oh,  goody!  goody!  goody!     We've  got 

sau-sa-ges. 
MRS.  LOVING:  Sh! 
JIMMY   (Silenced  for  a  few  moments;  Rachel  ties  a  big 

napkin  around  his  neck,  and  prepares  his  breakfast.     He 

breaks  forth  again  suddenly  and  excitedly)  :  Uncle  Tom! 
TOM:  Sir? 
JIMMY:  I  took  a  bath  this  morning,  all  by  myself  alone,  in 

the  bath-tub,  and  I  ranned,  no  (Doubtfully)  I  runned,  I 

think — the  water  all  in  it,  and  got  in  it  all  by  myself ;  and 

Ma  Loving  thought  it  was  you ;  but  it  was  me. 
TOM  (In  feignedly  severe  tones)  :  See  here,  young  man,  this 

won't  do.     Don't  you  know  I'm  the  only  one  who  is 

allowed  to  do  that  here?     It's  a  perfect  waste  of  water 

— that's  what  it  is. 
JIMMY   (Undaunted):  Oh!  no,  you're  not  the  only  one, 

'cause  Ma  Loving  and  Ma  Rachel  and  me — alls  takes 

baths  every  single  morning.     So,  there! 
TOM  :  You  'barrass  me.     (Jimmy  opens  his  mouth  to  ask  a 

question;  Tom  quickly)  Young  gentleman,  your  mouth  is 

open.     Close  it,  sir;  close  it. 

MRS.  LOVING  :  Tom,  you're  as  big  a  child  exactly  as  Jimmy. 
TOM   (Bowing  to  right  and  left)  :  You  compliment  me.     I 

thank  you,  I  am  sure. 

(They  finish  in  silence.) 


RACHEL  41 

JIMMY  (Sighing  with  contentment) :  I'm  through,  Ma 
Rachel. 

MRS.  LOVING:  Jimmy,  you're  a  big  boy,  now,  aren't  you? 
(Jimmy  nods  his  head  vigorously  and  looks  proud.)  I 
wonder  if  you're  big  enough  to  wash  your  own  hands, 
this  morning? 

JIMMY  (Shrilly)  :  Yes,  ma'am. 

MRS.LOVING:  Well,  if  they're  beautifully  clean,  I'll  give  you 
another  penny. 

JIMMY  (Excitedly  to  Rachel)  :  Please  untie  my  napkin,  Ma 
Rachel!  (Rachel  does  so.)  "Excoose"  me,  please. 

MRS.  LOVING  AND  RACHEL:  Certainly.  (Jimmy  climbs 
down  and  rushes  out  at  the  rear  doorway.) 

MRS.  LOVING  (Solemnly  and  slowly;  breaking  the  silence)  : 
Rachel,  do  you  know  what  day  this  is? 

RACHEL  (Looking  at  her  plate;  slowly)  :  Yes,  Ma  dear. 

MRS.  LOVING:  Tom. 

TOM  (Grimly  and  slowly)  :  Yes,  Ma. 
(A  silence.) 

MRS.  LOVING  (Impressively)  :  We  must  never — as  long— as 
we  live — forget  this  day. 

RACHEL:  No,  Ma  dear. 

TOM  :  No,  Ma. 

(Another  silence) 

TOM  (Slowly;  as  though  thinking  aloud)  :  I  hear  people 
talk  about  God's  justice — and  I  wonder.  There,  are  you, 
Ma.  There  isn't  a  sacrifice — that  you  haven't  made. 
You're  still  working  your  fingers  to  the  bone — sewing — 
just  so  all  of  us  may  keep  on  living.  Rachel  is  a  graduate 
in  Domestic  Science;  she  was  high  in  her  class;  most 
of  the  girls  below  her  in  rank  have  positions  in  the 
schools.  I'm  an  electrical  engineer — and  I've  tried 
steadily  for  several  months — to  practice  my  profession. 
It  seems  our  educations  aren't  of  much  use  to  us:  we 


42  RACHEL 

aren't  allowed  to  make  good — because  our  skins  are  dark. 
(Pauses)  And,  in  the  South  today,  there  are  white  men 
— (Controls  himself).  They  have  everything;  they're 
well-dressed,  well-fed,  well-housed;  they're  prosperous  in 
business;  they're  important  politically;  they're  pillars  in 
the  church.  I  know  ail  this  is  true — I've  inquired. 
Their  children  (our  ages,  some  of  them)  are  growing  up 
around  them;  and  they  are  having  a  square  deal  handed 
out  to  them — college,  position,  wealth,  and  best  of  all, 
freedom,  without  galling  restrictions,  to  work  out  their 
own  salvations.  With  ability,  they  may  become — 
anything;  and  all  this  will  be  true  of  their  children's 
children  after  them.  (A  pause).  Look  at  us — and  look 
at  them.  We  are  destined  to  failure — they,  to  success. 
Their  children  shall  grow  up  in  hope;  ours,  in  despair. 
Our  hands  are  clean; — theirs  are  red  with  blood — red 
with  the  blood  of  a  noble  man — and  a  boy.  They're 
nothing  but  low,  cowardly,  bestial  murderers.  The  scum 
of  the  earth  shall  succeed.  — God's  justice,  I  suppose. 

MRS.  LOVING  (Rising  and  going  to  Tom;  brokenly)  :  Tom, 
promise  me — one  thing. 

TOM  (Rises  gently)  :  What  is  it,  Ma? 

MRS.  LOVING:  That — you'll  try — not  to  lose  faith — in  God. 
I've  been  where  you  are  now — and  it's  black.  Tom,  we 
don't  understand  God's  ways.  My  son,  I  know,  now— 
He  is  beautiful.  Tom,  won't  you  try  to  believe,  again? 

TOM  (Slowly,  but  not  convincingly)  :  I'll  try,  Ma. 

MRS.  LOVING  (Sighs)  :  Each  one,  I  suppose,  has  to  work 
out  his  own  salvation.  (After  a  pause)  Rachel,  if  you'll 
get  Jimmy  ready,  I'll  take  him  to  school.  I've  got  to  go 
down  town  shopping  for  a  customer,  this  morning.  (Ra- 
chel rises  and  goes  out  the  rear  doorway;  Mrs.  Loving, 
limping  very  slightly  now,  follows.  She  turns  and  looks 
back  yearningly  at  Tom,  who  has  seated  himself  again, 


RACHEL  43 

and  is  staring  unseeingly  at  his  plate.  She  goes  out.  Tom 
sits  without  moving  until  he  hears  Mrs.  Loving' s  voice 
within  and  Rachel's  faintly;  then  he  gets  the  paper, 
sits  in  the  arm-chair  and  pretends  to  read). 

MRS.  LOVING  (From  within):  A  yard,  you  say,  Rachel? 
You're  sure  that  will  be  enough.  Oh!  you've  measured 
it.  Anything  else  ?— What  ?— Oh !  all  right.  I'll  be  back 
by  one  o'clock,  anyway.  Good-bye.  (Enters  with 
Jimmy.  Both  are  dressed  for  the  street.  Tom  looks  up 
brightly  at  Jimmy) . 

TOM  :  Hello !  Big  Fellow,  where  are  you  taking  my  mother, 
I'd  like  to  know?  This  is  a  pretty  kettle  of  fish. 

JIMMY  (Laughing)  :  Aren't  you  funny,  Uncle  Tom!  Why, 
I'm  not  taking  her  anywhere.  She's  taking  me.  (Im- 
portantly) I'm  going  to  school. 

TOM  :  Big  Fellow,  come  here.  (Jimmy  comes  with  a  rush). 
Now,  where's  that  penny  I  gave  you?  No,  I  don't  want 
to  see  it.  All  right.  Did  Ma  Loving  give  you  another? 
(Vigorous  noddings  of  the  head  from  Jimmy).  I  wish 
you  to  promise  me  solemnly — Now,  listen!  Here,  don't 
wriggle  so!  not  to  buy — Listen!  too  many  pints  of  ice- 
cream with  my  penny.  Understand? 

JIMMY  (Very  seriously)  :  Yes,  Uncle  Tom,  cross  my  "tum- 
my" !  I  promise. 

TOM  :  Well,  then,  you  may  go.  I  guess  that  will  be  all  for 
the  present.  (Jimmy  loiters  around  looking  up  wistfully 
into  his  face).  Well? 

JIMMY:  Haven't  you — aren't  you — isn't  you — forgetting 
something  ? 

TOM  (Grabbing  at  his  pockets)  :  Bless  my  stars!  what  now? 

JIMMY:  If  you  could  kind  of  lean  over  this  way.  (Tom 
leans  forward).  No,  not  that  way.  (Tom  leans  toward 
the  Me  away  from  Jimmy).  No,  this  way,  this  way! 


44  RACHEL 

(Laughs  and  pummels  him  with  his  little  fists).  This 
way! 

TOM  (Leaning  toward  Jimmy)  :  Well,  why  didn't  you  say 
so,  at  first  ? 

JIMMY  (Puts  his  arms  around  Tom's  neck  and  kisses  him)  : 
Good-bye,  dear  old  Uncle  Tom.  (Tom  catches  him  and 
hugs  him  hard).  I  likes  to  be  hugged  like  that — I  can 
taste — sau-sa-ges. 

TOM  :  You  'barrass  me,  son.  Here,  Ma,  take  your  boy.  Now 
remember  all  I  told  you,  Jimmy. 

JIMMY:  I  'members. 

MRS.  LOVING:  God  bless  you,  Tom.     Good  luck. 

JIMMY  (To  Tom)  :  God  bless  you,  Uncle  Tom.     Good  luck ! 

TOM  (Much  affected,  but  with  restraint,  rising)  :  Thank 
you — Good-bye.  (Mrs.  Loving  and  Jimmy  go  out  through 
the  vestibule.  Tom  lights  a  cigarette  and  tries  to  read 
the  paper.  He  soon  sinks  into  a  brown  study.  Presently 
Rachel  enters  humming.  Tom  relights  his  cigarette;  and 
Rachel  proceeds  to  clear  the  table.  In  the  midst  of  this, 
the  bell  rings  three  distinct  times). 

RACHEL  and  TOM  :  John ! 

TOM  :  I  wonder  what's  up — It's  rather  early  for  him. — I'll 
go.  (Rises  leisurely  and  goes  out  into  the  vestibule.  The 
outer  door  opens  and  shuts.  Men's  voices  are  heard. 
Tom  and  John  Strong  enter.  During  the  ensuing  con- 
versation Rachel  finishes  clearing  the  table,  takes  the 
fern  off,  puts  on  the  green  table-cloth,  places  a  doily  care- 
fully in  the  centre,  and  replaces  the  fern.  She  apparently 
pays  no  attention  to  the  conversation  between  her  brother 
and  Strong.  After  she  has  finished,  she  goes  to  the 
kitchenette.  The  rattle  of  dishes  can  be  heard  now  and 
then). 


RACHEL  45 

RACHEL  (Brightly)  :  Well,  stranger,  how  does  it  happen 
you're  out  so  early  in  the  morning? 

STRONG  :  I  hadn't  seen  any  of  you  for  a  week,  and  I  thought 
I'd  come  by,  on  my  way  to  work,  and  find  out  how  things 
are  going.  There  is  no  need  of  asking  how  you  are,  Ra- 
chel. And  the  mother  and  the  boy? 

RACHEL:  Ma  dear's  rheumatism  still  holds  on. — Jimmy's 
fine. 

STRONG:  I'm  sorry  to  hear  that  your  mother  is  not  well. 
There  isn't  a  remedy  going  that  my  mother  doesn't  know 
about.  I'll  get  her  advice  and  let  you  know.  (Turning 
to  Tom)  Well,  Tom,  how  goes  it?  (Strong  and  Tom 
sit). 

TOM  (Smiling  grimly)  :  There's  plenty  of  "go,"  but  no  "git 
there."  (There  is  a  pause). 

STRONG  :  I  was  hoping  for  better  news. 

TOM  :  If  I  remember  rightly,  not  so  many  years  ago,  you 
tried — and  failed.  Then,  a  colored  man  had  hardly  a 
ghost  of  a  show ; — now  he  hasn't  even  the  ghost  of  a  ghost. 
(Rachel  has  finished  and  goes  into  the  kitchenette). 

STRONG:  That's  true  enough.  (A  pause).  What  are  you 
going  to  do? 

TOM  (Slowly)  :  I'll  do  this  little  "going  act"  of  mine  the  rest 
of  the  week;  (pauses)  and  then,  I'll  do  anything  I  can  get 
to  do.  If  necessary,  I  suppose,  I  can  be  a  "White- wing." 

STRONG:  Tom,  I  came —  (Breaks  off;  continuing  slowly) 
Six  years  ago,  I  found  I  was  ttp  against  a  stone  wall — 
your  experience,  you  see,  to  the  letter.  I  couldn't  let  my 
mother  starve,  so  I  became  a  waiter.  (Pauses).  I 
studied  waiting ;  I  made  a  science  of  it,  an  art.  In  a  com- 
paratively short  time,  I'm  a  head-waiter  and  I'm  up 
against  another  stonewall.  I've  reached  my  limit.  I'm 
thirty-two  now,  and  I'll  die  a  head-waiter.  (A  pause). 


46  RACHEL 

College  friends,  so-called,  and  acquaintances  used  to  come 
into  the  restaurant.  One  or  two  at  first — attempted  to 
commiserate  with  me.  They  didn't  do  it  again.  I  waited 
upon  them — I  did  my  best.  Many  of  them  tipped  me. 
(Pauses  and  smiles  grimly).  I  can  remember  my  first 
tip,  still.  They  come  in  yet;  many  of  them  are  already 
powers,  not  only  in  this  city,  but  in  the  country.  Some 
of  them  make  a  personal  request  that  I  wait  upon  them.  I 
am  an  artist,  now,  in  my  proper  sphere.  They  tip  me  well, 
extremely  well — the  larger  the  tip,  the  more  pleased  they 
are  with  me.  Because  of  me,  in  their  own  eyes,  they're 
philanthropists.  Amusing,  isn't  it?  I  can  stand  their  at- 
titude now.  My  philosophy — learned  hard,  is  to  make 
the  best  of  everything  you  can,  and  go  on.  At  best,  life 
isn't  so  very  long.  You're  wondering  why  I'm  telling 
you  all  this.  I  wish  you  to  see  things  exactly  as  they  are. 
There  are  many  disadvantages  and  some  advantages  in 
being  a  waiter.  My  mother  can  live  comfortably;  I  am 
able,  even,  to  see  that  she  gets  some  of  the  luxuries.  Tom, 
it's  this  way — I  can  always  get  you  a  job  as  a  waiter; 
I'll  teach  you  the  art.  If  you  care  to  begin  the  end  of 
the  week — all  right.  And  remember  this,  as  long  as  I 
keep  my  job — this  offer  holds  good. 

TOM:  I— I—  (Breaks  off)  Thank  you.  (A  pause;  then 
smiling  wryly)  I  guess  it's  safe  enough  to  say,  you'll  see 
me  at  the  end  of  the  week.  John  you're —  (Breaking  off 
again.  A  silence  interrupted  presently  by  the  sound  of 
much  vigorous  rapping  on  the  outer  door  of  the  flat.  Ra- 
chel appears  and  crosses  over  to  the  vestibule) .  Hear  the 
racket !  My  kiddies  gently  begging  for  admittance.  It's 
about  twenty  minutes  of  nine,  isn't  it?  (Tom  nods).  I 
thought  so.  (Goes  into  the  entryway;  presently  reap- 
pears with  a  group  of  six  little  girls  ranging  in  age  from 
five  to  about  nine.  All  are  fighting  to  be  close  to  her;  and 


RACHEL  47 

all  are  talking  at  once.  There  is  one  exception:  the  smal- 
lest tot  is  self-possessed  and  self-sufficient.  She  carries 
a  red  geranium  in  her  hand  and  gives  it  her  full  atten- 
tion). 

LITTLE  MARY  :  It's  my  turn  to  get  "Morning  kiss"  first,  this 
morning,  Miss  Rachel.  You  kissed  Louise  first  yester- 
day. You  said  you'd  kiss  us  "alphebettically."  (Ending 
in  a  shriek) .  You  promised !  (Rachel  kisses  Mary,  who 
subsides). 

LITTLE  NANCY  (Imperiously)  :  Now,  me.  (Rachel  kisses 
her,  and  then  amid  shrieks,  recriminations,  pulling  of  hairf 
jostling,  etc.,  she  kisses  the  rest.  The  small  tot  is  still 
oblivious  to  everything  that  is  going  on). 

RACHEL  (Laughing)  :  You  children  will  pull  me  limb  from 
limb ;  and  then  I'll  be  all  dead ;  and  you'll  be  sorry — see, 
if  you  aren't.  (They  fall  back  immediately.  Tom  and 
John  watch  in  amused  silence.  Rachel  loses  all  self-con- 
sciousness, and  seems  to  bloom  in  the  children's  midst). 
Edith!  come  here  this  minute,  and  let  me  tie  your  hair- 
ribbon  again.  Nancy,  I'm  ashamed  of  you,  I  saw  you 
trying  to  pull  it  off.  (Nancy  looks  abashed  but  mis- 
chievous). Louise,  you  look  as  sweet  as  sweet,  this  morn- 
ing; and  Jenny,  where  did  you  get  the  pretty,  pretty 
dress  ? 

LITTLE  JENNY  (Snuffling,  but  proud)  :  My  mother  made  it. 
(Pauses  with  more  snuffles).  My  mother  says  I  have  a 
very  bad  cold.  (There  is  a  brief  silence  interruped  by 
the  small  tot  with  the  geranium). 

LITTLE  MARTHA  (In  a  sweet,  little  voice)  :  I — have — a — 
pitty — 'ittle  flower. 

RACHEL:  Honey,  it's  beautiful.  Don't  you  want  "Morning 
kiss"  too? 

LITTLE  MARTHA  :  Yes,  I  do. 


48  RACHEL 

RACHEL:  Come,  honey.  (Rachel  kisses  her).  Are  you 
going  to  give  the  pretty  flower  to  Jenny's  teacher: 
(Vigorous  shakings  of  the  head  in  denial).  Is  it  for — 
mother?  (More  shakings  of  the  head).  Is  it  for — let's 
see — Daddy?  (More  shakings  of  the  head).  I  give  up. 
To  whom  are  you  going  to  give  the  pretty  flower,  honey? 

LITTLE  MARTHA  (Shyly)  :  "Oo." 

RACHEL:  You,  darling! 

LITTLE  MARTHA  :  Muzzer  and  I  picked  it — for  "oo."  Here 
't  is.  (Puts  her  finger  in  her  mouth,  and  gives  it  shyly). 

RACHEL:  Well,  I'm  going  to  pay  you  with  three  big  kisses. 
One !  Two !  Three ! 

LITTLE  MARTHA:  I  can  count,  One!  Two!  Free!  Tan't  I? 
I  am  going  to  school  soon ;  and  I  wants  to  put  the  flower 
in  your  hair. 

RACHEL  (Kneels)  :  All  right,  baby.  (Little  Martha  fum- 
bles and  Rachel  helps  her). 

LITTLE  MARTHA  (Dreamily)  :  Miss  Rachel,  the  'ittle  flower 
loves  you.  It  told  me  so.  It  said  it  wanted  to  lie  in  your 
hair.  It  is  going  to  tell  you  a  pitty  'ittle  secret.  You 
listen  awful  hard — and  you'll  hear.  I  wish  I  were  a 
fairy  and  had  a  little  wand,  I'd  turn  everything  into 
flowers.  Wouldn't  that  be  nice,  Miss  Rachel  ? 

RACHEL  :  Lovely,  honey ! 

LITTLE  JENNY  (Snuffling  loudly)  :  If  I  were  a  fairy  and  had 
a  wand,  I'd  turn  you,  Miss  Rachel,  into  a  queen — and 
then  I'd  always  be  near  you  and  see  that  you  were  happy. 

RACHEL  :  Honey,  how  beautiful ! 

LITTLE  LOUISE:  I'd  make  my  mother  happy — if  I  were  a 
fairy.  She  cries  all  the  time.  My  father  can't  get  any- 
thing to  do. 

LITTLE  NANCY:  If  I  were  a  fairy,  I'd  turn  a  boy  in  my 
school  into  a  spider.  I  hate  him. 

RACHEL:  Honey,  why? 


RACHEL  49 

LITTLE  NANCY:  I'll  tell  you  sometime — I  hate  him. 

LITTLE  EDITH  :  Where's  Jimmy,  Miss  Rachel  ? 

RACHEL:  He  went  long  ago;  and  chickies,  you'll  have  to 
clear  out,  all  of  you,  now,  or  you'll  be  late.  Shoo !  Shoo ! 
(She  drives  them  out  prettily  before  her.  They  laugh 
merrily.  They  all  go  into  the  vestibule). 

TOM  (Slowly)  :  Does  it  ever  strike  you — how  pathetic  and 
tragic  a  thing — a  little  colored  child  is? 

STRONG:  Yes. 

TOM  :  Today,  we  colored  men  and  women,  everywhere — 
are  up  against  it.  Every  year,  we  are  having  a  harder 
time  of  it.  In  the  South,  they  make  it  as  impossible  as 
they  can  for  us  to  get  an  education.  We're  hemmed  in 
on  all  sides.  Our  one  safeguard — the  ballot — in  most 
states,  is  taken  away  already,  or  is  being  taken  away. 
Economically,  in  a  few  lines,  we  have  a  slight  show — 
but  at  what  a  cost !  In  the  North,  they  make  a  pretence 
of  liberality :  they  give  us  the  ballot  and  a  good  education, 
and  then — snuff  us  out.  Each  year,  the  problem  just  to 
live,  gets  more  difficult  to  solve.  How  about  these  child- 
ren— if  we're  fools  enough  to  have  any?  (RACHEL  re- 
enters.  Her  face  is  drawn  and  pale.  She  returns  to  the 
kitchenette.) 

STRONG  (Slowly,  with  emphasis)  :  That  part — is  damnable ! 
(A  silence.) 

TOM  (Suddenly  looking  at  the  clock)  :  It's  later  than  I 
thought.  I'll  have  to  be  pulling  out  of  here  now,  if  you 
don't  mind.  (Raising  his  voice)  Rachel!  (Rachel  still 
drawn  and  pale,  appears  in  the  doorway  of  the  kitchen- 
ette. She  is  without  her  apron).  I've  got  to  go  now, 
Sis.  I  leave  John  in  your  hands. 

STRONG  :  I've  got  to  go,  myself,  in  a  few  minutes. 

TOM:  Nonsense,  man!  Sit  still.  I'll  begin  to  think,  in  a 
minute,  you're  afraid  of  the  ladies. 


50  RACHEL 

STRONG:  I  am. 

TOM  :  What !     And  not  ashamed  to  acknowledge  it? 

STRONG:  No. 

TOM:  You're  lots  wiser  than  I  dreamed.  So  long!  (Gets 
hat  out  in  the  entry-way  and  returns;  smiles  wryly.) 
"Morituri  Salutamus".  (They  nod  at  him — Rachel  wist- 
fully. He  goes  out.  There  is  the  sound  of  an  opening 
and  closing  door.  Rachel  sits  down.  A  rather  uncom- 
fortable silence,  on  the  part  of  Rachel,  ensues.  Strong 
is  imperturbable.) 

RACHEL  (Nervously):  John! 

STRONG:  Well? 

RACHEL:  I — I  listened. 

STRONG:  Listened!     To  what? 

RACHEL:  To  you  and  Tom. 

STRONG:  Well, — what  of  it? 

RACHEL  :  I  didn't  think  it  was  quite  fair  not  to  tell  you.  It — 
it  seemed,  well,  like  eavesdropping. 

STRONG  :  Don't  worry  about  it.     Nonsense ! 

RACHEL:  I'm  glad — I  want  to  thank  you  for  what  you  did 
for  Tom.  He  needs  you,  and  will  need  you.  You'll 
help  him? 

STRONG:  (Thoughtfully):  Rachel,  each  one — has  his  own 
little  battles.  I'll  do  what  I  can.  After  all,  an  outsider 
doesn't  help  much. 

RACHEL:  But  friendship — just  friendship — helps. 

STRONG:  Yes.  (A  silence).  Rachel,  do  you  hear  anything 
encouraging  from  the  schools?  Any  hope  for  you  yet? 

RACHEL:  No,  nor  ever  will  be.  I  know  that  now.  There's 
no  more  chance  for  me  than  there  is  for  Tom, — or  than 
there  was  for  you — or  for  any  of  us  with  dark  skins.  It's 
lucky  for  me  that  1  love  to  keep  house,  and  cook,  and 
sew.  I'll  never  get  anything  else.  Ma  dear's  sewing, 
the  little  work  Tom  has  been  able  to  get,  and  the  little 


RACHEL  51 

sewing  I  sometimes  get  to  do — keep  us  from  the  poor- 
house.  We  live.  According  to  your  philosophy,  I  sup- 
pose, make  the  best  of  it — it  might  be  worse. 

STRONG  (Quietly)  :  You  don't  want  to  get  morbid  over 
these  things,  you  know. 

RACHEL  (Scornfully)  :  That's  it.  If  you  see  things  as  they 
are,  you're  either  pessimistic  or  morbid. 

STRONG:  In  the  long  run,  do  you  believe,  that  attitude  of 
mind — will  be — beneficial  to  you?  I'm  ten  years  older 
than  you.  I  tried  your  way.  I  know.  Mine  is  the  only 
sane  one.  (Goes  over  to  her  slowly;  deliberately  puts 
his  hands  on  her  hair,  and  tips  her  head  back.  He  looks 
down  into  her  face  quietly  without  saying  anything). 

RACHEL  (Nervous  and  startled)  :  Why,  John,  don't !  (He 
pays  no  attention,  but  continues  to  look  down  into  her 
face). 

STRONG  (Half  to  himself)  :  Perhaps — if  you  had — a  little 
more  fun  in  your  life,  your  point  of  view  would  be — 
more  normal.  I'll  arrange  it  so  I  can  take  you  to  some 
theatre,  one  night,  this  week. 

RACHEL  (Irritably)  :  You  talk  as  though  I  were  a — a  jelly- 
fish. You'll  take  me,  how  do  you  know  /'//  go? 

STRONG:  You  will. 

RACHEL  (Sarcastically):  Indeed!  (STRONG  makes  no 
reply).  I  wonder  if  you  know  how — how — maddening 
you  are.  Why,  you  talk  as  though  my  will  counts  for 
nothing.  It's  as  if  you're  trying  to  master  me.  I  think 
a  domineering  man  is  detestable. 

STRONG  (Softly)  :  If  he's,  perhaps,  the  man? 

RACHEL  (Hurriedly,  as  though  she  had  not  heard)  :  Besides, 
some  of  these  theatres  put  you  off  by  yourself  as  though 
you  had  leprosy.  I'm  not  going. 

STRONG  (Smiling  at  her)  :  You  know  I  wouldn't  ask  you 
to  go,  under  those  circumstances.  (A  silence).  Well,  I 


52  RACHEL 

must  be  going  now.  (He  takes  her  hand,  and  looks  at 
it  reverently.  Rachel,  at  first  resists;  but  he  refuses  to 
let  go.  When  she  finds  it  useless,  she  ceases  to  resist. 
He  turns  his  head  and  smiles  down  into  her  face). 
Rachel,  I  am  coming  back  to  see  you,  this  evening. 

RACHEL  :  I'm  sure  we'll  all  be  very  glad  to  see  you. 

STRONG  (Looking  at  her  calmly)  :  I  said — you.  (Very  delib- 
erately, he  turns  her  hand  palm  upwards,  leans  over  and 
kisses  it;  then  he  puts  it  back  into  her  lap.  He  touches  her 
cheek  lightly).  Good-bye — little  Rachel.  (Turns  in  the 
vestibule  door  and  looks  back,  smiling).  Until  tonight. 
(He  goes  out.  Rachel  sits  for  some  time  without  mov- 
ing. She  is  lost  in  a  beautiful  day-dream.  Presently 
she  sighs  happily,  and  after  looking  furtively  around  the 
room,  lifts  the  palm  John  has  kissed  to  her  lips.  She 
laughs  shyly  and  jumping  up,  begins  to  hum.  She  opens 
the  window  at  the  rear  of  the  room  and  then  commences 
to  thread  the  sewing-machine.  She  hums  happily  the 
whole  time.  A  light  rapping  is  heard  at  the  outer  door. 
Rachel  listens.  It  stops,  and  begins  again.  There  is 
something  insistent,  and  yet  hopeless  in  the  sound. 
Rachel  looking  puzzled,  goes  out  into  the  vestibule. . .  The 
door  closes.  Rachel,  a  black  woman ,  poorly  dressed, 
and  a  little  ugly,  black  child  come  in.  There  is  the  stoni- 
ness  of  despair  in  the  woman's  face.  The  child  is  thin, 
nervous,  suspicious,  frightened). 

MRS.  LANE  (In  a  sharp,  but  toneless  voice)  :  May  I  sit 
down?  I'm  tired. 

RACHEL  (Puzzled,  but  gracious;  draws  up  a  chair  for  her)  : 
Why,  certainly. 

MRS.  LANE:  No,  you  don't  know  me — never  even  heard  of 
me — nor  I  of  you.  I  was  looking  at  the  vacant  flat  on 
this  floor — and  saw  your  name — on  your  door, — "Lov- 


RACHEL  53 

ing !"     It's  a  strange  name  to  come  across — in  this  world. 

—I  thought,  perhaps,  you  might  give  me  some  infor- 
mation.    (The  child  hides  behind  her  mother  and  looks 

around  at  Rachel  in  a  frightened  way) . 
RACHEL    (Smiling   at  the  woman  and   child  in   a  kindly 

manner)  :  I'll  be  glad  to  tell  you  anything,  I  am  able 

Mrs.— 
MRS.  LANE:  Lane.     What  I  want  to  know  is,  how  do  they 

treat  the  colored  children  in  the  school  I  noticed  around 

the  corner?     (The  child  clutches  at  her  mother's  dress). 
RACHEL   (Perplexed)  :  Very  well — I'm  sure. 
MRS.  LANE   (Bluntly)  :  What  reason  have  you  for  being 

sure? 
RACHEL:  Why,  the  little  boy  I've  adopted  goes  there;  and 

he's  very  happy.     All  the  children  in  this  apartment-house 

go  there  too;  and  I  know  they're  happy. 
MRS.  LANE:  Do  you  know  how  many  colored  children  there 

are  in  the  school? 

RACHEL:  Why,  I  should  guess  around  thirty. 
MRS.   LANE:  I  see.     (Pauses).     What  color  is  this  little 

adopted  boy  of  yours? 
RACHEL   (Gently)  :  Why — he's  brown. 
MRS.  LANE:  Any  black  children  there? 
RACHEL  (Nervously)  :  Why — yes. 
MRS.  LANE:  Do  you  mind  if  I  send  Ethel  over  by  the  piano 

to  sit? 
RACHEL:   N — no,   certainly   not.     (Places  a   chair   by  the 

piano  and  goes  to  the  little  girl  holding  out  her  hand. 

She  smiles  beautifully.     The  child  gets  farther  behind  her 

mother) . 
MRS.  LANE:  She  won't  go  to  you — she's  afraid  of  everybody 

now  but  her  father  and  me.     Come  Ethel.     (Mrs.  Lane 

takes  the  little  girl  by  the  hand  and  leads  her  to  the  chair. 

In    a    gentler   voice)    Sit    down,    Ethel.     (Ethel    obeys. 


54  RACHEL 

When  her  mother  starts  back  again  toward  Rachel,  she 
holds  out  her  hands  pitifully.  She  makes  no  sound). 
I'm  not  going  to  leave  you,  Ethel.  I'll  be  right  over  here. 
You  can  see  me.  (The  look  of  agony  on  the  child's  face, 
as  her  mother  leaves  her,  makes  Rachel  shudder).  Do 
you  mind  if  we  sit  over  here  by  the  sewing-machine? 
Thank  you.  (They  move  their  chairs). 

RACHEL  (Looking  at  the  little,  pitiful  figure  watching  its 
mother  almost  unblinkingly)  :  Does  Ethel  like  apples,  Mrs. 
Lane? 

MRS.  LANE:  Yes. 

RACHEL:  Do  you  mind  if  I  give  her  one? 

MRS.  LANE:  No.     Thank  you,  very  much. 

RACHEL  (Goes  into  the  kitchenette  and  returns  with  a 
fringed  napkin,  a  plate,  and  a  big,  red  apple,  cut  into 
quarters.  She  goes  to  the  little  girl,  who  cowers  away 
from  her;  very  gently).  Here,  dear,  little  girl,  is  a 
beautiful  apple  for  you.  (The  gentle  tones  have  no  ap- 
peal for  the  trembling  child  before  her). 

MRS.  LANE  (Coming  forward)  :  I'm  sorry,  but  I'm  afraid 
she  won't  take  it  from  you.  Ethel,  the  kind  lady  has  given 
you  an  apple.  Thank  her  nicely.  Here!  I'll  spread  the 
napkin  for  you,  and  put  the  plate  in  your  lap.  Thank  the 
lady  like  a  good  little  girl. 

ETHEL  (Fery  low)  :  Thank  you.  (They  return  to  their 
seats.  Ethel  with  difficulty  holds  the  plate  in  her  lap. 
During  the  rest  of  the  interview  between  Rachel  and  her 
mother,  she  divides  her  attention  between  the  apple  on 
the  plate  and  her  mother's  face.  She  makes  no  attempt 
to  eat  the  apple,  but  holds  the  plate  in  her  lap  with  a  care 
that  is  painful  to  watch.  Often,  too,  she  looks  over  her 
shoulder  fearfully.  The  conversation  between  Rachel 
and  her  mother  is  carried  on  in  low  tones). 

MRS.  LANE:  I've  got  to  move — it's  Ethel. 


RACHEL  55 

RACHEL:  What  is  the  matter  with  that  child?  It's— it's 
heartbreaking  to  see  her. 

MRS.  LANE:  I  understand  how  you  feel, — I  don't  feel  any- 
thing, myself,  any  more.  (A  pause).  My  husband  and  I 
are  poor,  and  we're  ugly  and  we're  black.  Ethel  looks  like 
her  father  more  than  she  does  like  me.  We  live  in  55th 
Street — near  the  railroad.  It's  a  poor  neighborhood,  but 
the  rent's  cheap.  My  husband  is  a  porter  in  a  store ;  and, 
to  help  out,  I'm  a  caretaker.  (Pauses).  I  don't  know 
why  I'm  telling  you  all  this.  We  had  a  nice  little  home — 
and  the  three  of  us  were  happy.  Now  we've  got  to  move. 

RACHEL:  Move  I    Why? 

MRS.  LANE  :  It's  Ethel.  I  put  her  in  school  this  September. 
She  stayed  two  weeks.  (Pointing  to  Ethel)  That's  the 
result. 

RACHEL  (In  horror)  :  You  mean — that  just  two  weeks — in 
school — did  that? 

MRS.  LANE:  Yes.  Ethel  never  had  a  sick  day  in  her  life — 
before.  (A  brief  pause).  I  took  her  to  the  doctor  at 
the  end  of  the  two  weeks.  He  says  she's  a  nervous  wreck. 

RACHEL:  But  what  could  they  have  done  to  her? 

MRS.  LANE  (Laughs  grimly  and  mirthlessly)  :  I'll  tell  you 
what  they  did  the  first  day.  Ethel  is  naturally  sensitive 
and  backward.  She's  not  assertive.  The  teacher  saw 
that,  and,  after  I  had  left,  told  her  to  sit  in  a  seat  in  the 
rear  of  the  class.  She  was  alone  there — in  a  corner. 
The  children,  immediately  feeling  there  was  something 
wrong  with  Ethel  because  of  the  teacher's  attitude,  turned 
and  stared  at  her.  When  the  teacher's  back  was  turned 
they  whispered  about  her,  pointed  their  fingers  at  her 
and  tittered.  The  teacher  divided  the  class  into  two  parts, 
divisions,  I  believe,  they  are  called.  She  forgot  all  about 
Ethel,  of  course,  until  the  last  minute,  and  then,  looking 
back,  said  sharply:  "That  little  girl  there  may  join  this 


56  RACHEL 

division,"  meaning  the  group  of  pupils  standing  around 
her.  Ethel  naturally  moved  slowly.  The  teacher  called 
her  sulky  and  told  her  to  lose  a  part  of  her  recess.  When 
Ethel  came  up — the  children  drew  away  from  her  in  every 
direction.  She  was  left  standing  alone.  The  teacher  then 
proceeded  to  give  a  lesson  about  kindness  to  animals. 
Funny,  isn't  it,  kindness  to  animals?  The  children  for- 
got Ethel  in  the  excitement  of  talking  about  their  pets. 
Presently,  the  teacher  turned  to  Ethel  and  said  disagree- 
ably: "Have  you  a  pet?"  Ethel  said,  "Yes,"  very  low. 
"Come,  speak  up,  you  sulky  child,  what  is  it?"  Ethel 
said:  "A  blind  puppy."  They  all  laughed,  the  teacher 
and  all.  Strange,  isn't  it,  but  Ethel  loves  that  puppy. 
She  spoke  up :  "It's  mean  to  laugh  at  a  little  blind  puppy. 
I'm  glad  he's  blind."  This  remark  brought  forth  more 
laughter.  "Why  are  you  glad,"  the  teacher  asked 
curiously.  Ethel  refused  to  say.  (Pauses).  When  I 
asked  her  why,  do  you  know  what  she  told  me?  "If  he 
saw  me,  he  might  not  love  me  any  more."  (A  pause). 
Did  I  tell  you  that  Ethel  is  only  seven  years  old? 

RACHEL  (Drawing  her  breath  sharply)  :  Oh !  I  didn't  believe 
any  one  could  be  as  cruel  as  that — to  a  little  child. 

MRS.  LANE:  It  isn't  very  pleasant,  is  it?  When  the  teacher 
found  out  that  Ethel  wouldn't  answer,  she  said  severely: 
"Take  your  seat!"  At  recess,  all  the  children  went  out. 
Ethel  could  hear  them  playing  and  laughing  and  shrieking. 
Even  the  teacher  went  too.  She  was  made  to  sit  there 
all  alone — in  that  big  room — because  God  made  her  ugly 
— and  black.  (Pauses).  When  the  recess  was  half  over 
the  teacher  came  back.  "You  may  go  now,"  she  said 
coldly.  Ethel  didn't  stir.  "Did  you  hear  me?"  "Yes'm." 
"Why  don't  you  obey?"  "I  don't  want  to  go  out,  please." 
"You  don't,  don't  you,  you  stubborn  child!  Go  im- 
mediately !"  Ethel  went.  She  stood  by  the  school  steps. 


RACHEL  57 

No  one  spoke  to  her.  The  children  near  her  moved  away 
in  every  direction.  They  stopped  playing,  many  of  them, 
and  watched  her.  They  stared  as  only  children  can  stare. 
Some  began  whispering  about  her.  Presently  one  child 
came  up  and  ran  her  hand  roughly  over  Ethel's  face.  She 
looked  at  her  hand  and  Ethel's  face  and  ran  screaming 
back  to  the  others,  "It  won't  come  off!  See!"  Other 
children  followed  the  first  child's  example.  Then  one 
boy  spoke  up  loudly:  "I  know  what  she  is,  she's  a  nig- 
ger!" Many  took  up  the  cry.  God  or  the  devil  inter- 
fered— the  bell  rang.  The  children  filed  in.  One  boy 
boldly  called  her  "Nigger !"  before  the  teacher.  She  said, 
"That  isn't  nice," — but  she  smiled  at  the  boy.  Things 
went  on  about  the  same  for  the  rest  of  the  day.  At  the 
end  of  school,  Ethel  put  on  her  hat  and  coat — the  teacher 
made  her  hang  them  at  a  distance  from  the  other  pupils' 
wraps ;  and  started  for  home.  Quite  a  crowd  escorted 
her.  They  called  her  "Nigger!"  all  the  way.  I  made 
Ethel  go  the  next  day.  I  complained  to  the  authorities. 
They  treated  me  lightly.  I  was  determined  not  to  let 
them  force  my  child  out  of  school.  At  the  end  of  two 
weeks — I  had  to  take  her  out. 

RACHEL  (Brokenly)  :  Why, — I  never— in  all  my  life — 
heard  anything — so — pitiful. 

MRS.  LANE:  Did  you  ever  go  to  school  here? 

RACHEL:  Yes.  I  was  made  to  feel  my  color — but  I  never 
had  an  experience  like  that. 

MRS.  LANE:  How  many  years  ago  were  you  in  the  graded 
schools  ? 

RACHEL:  Oh! — around  ten. 

MRS.  LANE  (Laughs  grimly)  :  Ten  years !  Every  year 
things  are  getting  worse.  Last  year  wasn't  as  bad  as  this. 
(Pauses.)  So  they  treat  the  children  all  right  in  this 
school ? 


58  RACHEL 

RACHEL:  Yes!    Yes!    I  know  that. 

MRS.  LANE:  I  can't  afford  to  take  this  flat  here,  but  I'll 
take  it.  I'm  going  to  have  Ethel  educated.  Although, 
when  you  think  of  it, — it's  all  rather  useless — this  educa- 
tion! What  are  our  children  going  to  do  with  it,  when 
they  get  it?  We  strive  and  save  and  sacrifice  to  educate 
them— and  the  whole  time— down  underneath,  we  know 
— they'll  have  no  chance. 

RACHEL  (Sadly)  :  Yes,  that's  true,  all  right. — God  seems 
to  have  forgotten  us. 

MRS.  LANE:  God!  It's  all  a  lie  about  God.  I  know. — This 
fall  I  sent  Ethel  to  a  white  Sunday-school  near  us.  She 
received  the  same  treatment  there  she  did  in  the  day 
school.  Her  being  there,  nearly  broke  up  the  school. 
At  the  end,  the  superintendent  called  her  to  him  and  asked 
her  if  she  didn't  know  of  some  nice  colored  Sunday- 
school.  He  told  her  she  must  feel  out  of  place,  and 
uncomfortable  there.  That's  your  Church  of  God! 

RACHEL:  Oh!  how  unspeakably  brutal.  (Controls  herself 
with  an  effort;  after  a  pause)  Have  you  any  other 
children  ? 

MRS.  LANE  (Dryly)  :  Hardly!  If  I  had  another— I'd  kill 
it.  It's  kinder.  (Rising  presently)  Well,  I  must  go, 
now.  Thank  you,  for  your  information — and  for 
listening.  (Suddenly)  You  aren't  married,  are  you? 

RACHEL:  No. 

MRS.  LANE:  Don't  marry — that's  my  advice.  Come,Ethel. 
(Ethel  gets  up  and  puts  down  the  things  in  her  lap, 
carefully  upon  her  chair.  She  goes  in  a  hurried,  timid 
way  to  her  mother  and  clutches  her  hand).  Say  good-bye 
to  the  lady. 

ETHEL  (Faintly}  :  Good-bye. 

RACHEL  (Kneeling  by  the  little  girl — a  beautiful  smile  on 
her  face)  Dear  little  girl,  won't  you  let  me  kiss  you 


RACHEL  59 

good-bye?  I  love  little  girls.  (The  child  hides  behind 
her  mother;  continuing  brokenly)  Oh! — no  child — ever 
did — that  to  me — before! 

MRS.  LANE  (In  a  gentler  voice)  :  Perhaps,  when  we  move  in 
here,  the  first  of  the  month,  things  may  be  better.  Thank 
you,  again.  Good-morning !  You  don't  belie  your  name. 
(All  three  go  into  the  vestibule.  The  outside  door  opens 
and  closes.  Rachel  as  though  dazed  and  stricken  returns. 
She  sits  in  a  chair,  leans  forward,  and  clasping  her  hands 
loosely  between  her  knees,  stares  at  the  chair  with  the 
apple  on  it  where  Ethel  Lane  has  sat.  She  does  not  move 
for  some  time.  Then  she  gets  up  and  goes  to  the  window 
in  the  rear  center  and  sits  there.  She  breathes  in  the  air 
deeply  and  then  goes  to  the  sewing-machine  and  begins 
to  sew  on  something  she  is  making.  Presently  her  feet 
slow  down  on  the  pedals;  she  stops;  and  begins  brooding 
again.  After  a  short  pause,  she  gets  up  and  begins  to 
pace  up  and  down  slowly,  mechanically,  her  head  bent 
forward.  The  sharp  ringing  of  the  electric  bell  breaks 
in  upon  this.  Rachel  starts  and  goes  slowly  into  the 
vestibule.  She  is  heard  speaking  dully  through  the  tube). 

RACHEL:  Yes! — All  right!  Bring  it  up!  (Presently  she 
returns  with  a  long  flower  box.  She  opens  it  listlessly 
at  the  table.  Within  are  six,  beautiful  crimson  rosebuds 
with  long  stems.  Rachel  looks  at  the  name  on  the  card. 
She  sinks  down  slowly  on  her  knees  and  leans  her  head 
against  the  table.  She  sighs  wearily)  Oh!  John! 
John ! — What  are  we  to  do  ? — I'm — I'm — afraid !  Every- 
where— it  is  the  same  thing.  My  mother!  My  little 
brother!  Little,  black,  crushed  Ethel!  (In  a  whisper) 
Oh !  God !  You  who  I  have  been  taught  to  believe  are  so 
good,  so  beautiful  how  could — You  permit — these — 
things?  (Pauses,  raises  her  head  and  sees  the  rosebuds. 
Her  face  softens  and  grows  beautiful,  very  sweetly). 


60  RACHEL 

Dear  little  rosebuds — you — make  me  think — of  sleeping, 
curled  up,  happy  babies.  Dear  beautiful,  little  rosebuds ! 
(Pauses;  goes  on  thoughtfully  to  the  rosebuds)  When — I 
look — at  you — I  believe — God  is  beautiful.  He  who  can 
make  a  little  exquisite  thing  like  this,  and  this  can't  be 
cruel.  Oh  !  He  can't  mean  me — to  give  up — love — and 
the  hope  of  little  children.  (There  is  the  sound  of  a 
small  hand  knocking  at  the  outer  door.  Rachel  smiles). 
My  Jimmy!  It  must  be  twelve  o'clock.  (Rises).  I 
didn't  dream  it  was  so  late.  (Starts  for  the  vestibule). 
Oh!  the  world  can't  be  so  bad.  I  don't  believe  it.  I 
won't.  I  must  forget  that  little  girl.  My  little  Jimmy  is 
happy — and  today  John — sent  me  beautiful  rosebuds.  Oh, 
there  are  lovely  things,  yet.  (Goes  into  the  vestibule.  A 
child's  eager  cry  is  heard;  and  Rachel  carrying  Jimmy  in 
her  arms  comes  in.  He  has  both  arms  about  her  neck 
and  is  hugging  her.  With  him  in  her  arms,  she  sits  down 
in  the  armchair  at  the  right  front). 

RACHEL:  Well,  honey,  how  was  school  today? 

JIMMY  (Sobering  a  trifle)  :  All  right,  Ma  Rachel.  (Sud- 
denly sees  the  roses)  Oh !  look  at  the  pretty  flowers.  Why, 
Ma  Rachel,  you  forgot  to  put  them  in  water.  They'll  die. 

RACHEL:  Well,  so  they  will.  Hop  down  this  minute,  and 
I'll  put  them  in  right  away.  (Gathers  up  box  and  flowers 
and  goes  into  the  kitchenette.  Jimmy  climbs  back  into 
the  chair.  He  looks  thoughtful  and  serious.  Rachel 
comes  back  with  the  buds  in  a  tall,  glass  vase.  She  puts 
the  fern  on  top  of  the  piano,  and  places  the  vase  in  the 
centre  of  the  table).  There,  honey,  that's  better,  isn't  it? 
Aren't  they  lovely? 

JIMMY:  Yes,  that's  lots  better.  Now  they  won't  die,  will 
they?  Rosebuds  are  just  like  little  "chilyun,"  aren't  they, 
Ma  Rachel?  If  you  are  good  to  them,  they'll  grow  up 
into  lovely  roses,  won't  they?  And  if  you  hurt  them, 


RACHEL  61 

they'll  die.     Ma  Rachel  do  you  think  all  peoples  are  kind 
to  little  rosebuds? 

RACHEL  (Watching  Jimmy  shortly)  :  Why,  of  course.  Who 
could  hurt  little  children?  Who  would  have  the  heart  to 
do  such  a  thing? 

JIMMY:  If  you  hurt  them,  it  would  be  lots  kinder,  wouldn't 
it,  to  kill  them  all  at  once,  and  not  a  little  bit  and  a  little 
bit? 

RACHEL  (Sharply)  :  Why,  honey  boy,  why  are  you  talking 
like  this? 

JIMMY:  Ma  Rachel,  what  is  a  "Nigger"? 

(Rachel  recoils  as  though  she  had  been  struck). 

RACHEL:  Honey  boy,  why — why  do  you  ask  that? 

JIMMY:  Some  big  boys  called  me  that  when  I  came  out  of 
school  just  now.  They  said:  "Look  at  the  little  nigger!" 
And  they  laughed.  One  of  them  runned,  no  ranned, 
after  me  and  threw  stones;  and  they  all  kept  calling 
"Nigger!  Nigger!  Nigger!"  One  stone  struck  me  hard 
in  the  back,  and  it  hurt  awful  bad;  but  I  didn't  cry,  Ma 
Rachel.  I  wouldn't  let  them  make  me  cry.  The  stone 
hurts  me  there,  Ma  Rachel ;  but  what  they  called  me  hurts 
and  hurts  here.  WThat  is  a  "Nigger,"  Ma  Rachel? 

RACHEL  (Controlling  herself  with  a  tremendous  effort.  At 
last  she  sweeps  down  upon  him  and  hugs  and  kisses  him)  : 
Why,  honey  boy,  those  boys  didn't  mean  anything.  Silly, 
little,  honey  boy !  They're  rough,  that's  all.  How  could 
they  mean  anything? 

JIMMY:  You're  only  saying  that,  Ma  Rachel,  so  I  won't  be 
hurt.  I  know.  It  wouldn't  ache  here  like  it  does — if 
they  didn't  mean  something. 

RACHEL  (Abruptly)  :  Where's  Mary,  honey? 

JIMMY:  She's  in  her  flat.     She  came  in  just  after  I  did. 

RACHEL  :  Well,  honey,  I'm  going  to  give  you  two  big  cookies 
and  two  to  take  to  Mary ;  and  you  may  stay  in  there  and 


62  RACHEL 

play  with  her,  till  I  get  your  lunch  ready.  Won't  that  be 
jolly? 

JIMMY  (Brightening  a  little)  :  Why,  you  never  give  me  but 
one  at  a  time.  You'll  give  me  two? — One?  Two?  (Rachel 
gets  the  cookies  and  brings  them  to  him.  Jimmy  climbs 
down  from  the  chair).  Shoo !  now,  little  honey  boy.  See 
how  many  laughs  you  can  make  for  me,  before  I  come 
after  you.  Hear?  Have  a  good  time,  now.  (Jimmy 
starts  for  the  door  quickly;  but  he  begins  to  slow  down. 
His  face  gets  long  and  serious  again.  Rachel  watches 
him). 

RACHEL  (Jumping  at  him)  :  Shoo !  Shoo !  Get  out  of  here 
quickly,  little  chicken.  (She  follows  him  out.  The  outer 
door  opens  and  shuts.  Presently  she  returns.  She  looks 
old  and  worn  and  grey;  calmly.  Pauses).  First,  it's  lit- 
tle, black  Ethel — and  then's  it's  Jimmy.  Tomorrow,  it 
will  be  some  other  little  child.  The  blight — sooner  or 
later — strikes  all.  My  little  Jimmy,  only  seven  years  old 
poisoned!  (Through  the  open  window  comes  the  laugh- 
ter of  little  children  at  play.  Rachel,  shuddering,  covers 
her  ears).  And  once  I  said,  centuries  ago,  it  must  have 
been:  "How  can  life  be  so  terrible,  when  there  are  little 
children  in  the  world?"  Terrible!  Terrible!  (In  a  whis- 
per, slowly)  That's  the  reason  it  is  so  terrible.  (The 
laughter  reaches  her  again;  this  time  she  listens).  And, 
suddenly,  some  day,  from  out  of  the  black,  the  blight 
shall  descend,  and  shall  still  forever — the  laughter  on 
those  little  lips,  and  in  those  little  hearts.  (Pauses 
thoughtfully).  And  the  loveliest  thing — almost,  that  ever 
happened  to  me,  that  beautiful  voice,  in  my  dream,  those 
beautiful  words:  "Rachel,  you  are  to  be  the  mother  to 
little  children.  (Pauses,  then  slowly  and  with  dawning 
surprise).  Why,  God,  you  were  making  a  mock  of  me; 
you  were  laughing  at  me.  I  didn't  belive  God  could  laugh 


RACHEL  63 

at  our  sufferings,  but  He  can.  We  are  accursed,  ac- 
cursed! We  have  nothing,  absolutely  nothing.  (Strong's 
rosebuds  attract  her  attention.  She  goes  over  to  them, 
puts  her  hand  out  as  if  to  touch  them,  and  then  shakes 
her  head,  very  sweetly)  No,  little  rosebuds,  I  may  not 
touch  you.  Dear,  little,  baby  rosebuds, — I  am  accursed. 
(Gradually  her  whole  form  stiffens,  she  breathes  deeply; 
at  last  slowly).  You  God! — You  terrible,  laughing  God  I 
Listen!  I  swear — and  may  my  soul  be  damned  to  all 
eternity,  if  I  do  break  this  oath — I  swear — that  no  child 
of  mine  shall  ever  lie  upon  my  breast,  for  I  will  not  have 
it  rise  up,  in  the  terrible  days  that  are  to  be — and  call  me 
cursed.  (A  pause,  very  wistfully;  questioningly) . 
Never  to  know  the  loveliest  thing  in  all  the  world — the 
feel  of  a  little  head,  the  touch  of  little  hands,  the  beauti- 
ful utter  dependence — of  a  little  child?  (With  sudden 
frenzy)  You  can  laugh,  Oh  God!  Well,  so  can  I.  (Bursts 
into  terrible,  racking  laughter)  But  I  can  be  kinder  than 
You.  (Fiercely  she  snatches  the  rosebuds  from  the  vase, 
grasps  them  roughly,  tears  each  head  from  the  stem,  and 
grinds  it  under  her  feet.  The  vase  goes  over  with  a 
crash;  the  water  drips  unheeded  over  the  table-cloth  and 
floor).  If  I  kill,  You  Mighty  God,  I  kill  at  once— I  do 
not  torture.  (Falls  face  downward  on  the  floor.  The 
laughter  of  the  children  shrills  loudly  through  the  win- 
dow). 


ACT  III 


ACT  III. 

TIME:  Seven  o'clock  in  the  evening,  one  week  later. 

PLACE:  The  same  room.  There  is  a  coal  fire  in  the  grate. 
The  curtains  are  drawn.  A  lighted  oil  lamp  with  a 
dark  green  porcelain  shade  is  in  the  center  of  the  table. 
Mrs.  Loving  and  Tom  are  sitting  by  the  table,  Mrs. 
Loving  sewing,  Tom  reading.  There  is  the  sound  of 
much  laughter  and  the  shrill  screaming  of  a  child  from 
the  bedrooms.  Presently  Jimmy  clad  in  a  flannelet 
sleeping  suit,  covering  all  of  him  but  his  head  and  hands, 
chases  a  pillow,  which  has  come  flying  through  the 
doorway  at  the  rear.  He  struggles  with  it,  finally  gets 
it  in  his  arms,  and  rushes  as  fast  as  he  can  through  the 
doorway  again.  Rachel  jumps  at  him  with  a  cry.  He 
drops  the  pillow  and  shrieks.  There  is  a  tussle  for  pos- 
session of  it,  and  they  disappear.  The  noise  grows 
louder  and  merrier.  Tom  puts  down  his  paper  and 
grins.  He  looks  at  his  mother. 

TOM:  Well,  who's  the  giddy  one  in  this  family  now? 

MRS.  LOVING  (Shaking  her  head  in  a  troubled  manner)  :  I 
don't  like  it.  It  worries  me.  Rachel — (Breaks  off). 

TOM  :  Have  you  found  out,  yet — 

MRS.  LOVING  (Turning  and  looking  toward  the  rear  door- 
way, quickly  interrupting  him)  :  Sh!  (Rachel,  laughing, 
her  hair  tumbling  over  her  shoulders,  comes  rushing  into 
the  room.  Jimmy  is  in  close  pursuit.  He  tries  to  catch 
her,  but  she  dodges  him.  They  are  both  breathless). 

[67] 


68  RACHEL 

MRS.  LOVING  (Deprecatingly)  :  Really,  Rachel,  Jimmy  will 
be  so  excited  he  won't  be  able  to  sleep.  It's  after  his 
bedtime,  now.  Don't  you  think  you  had  better  stop? 

RACHEL:  All  right,  Ma  dear.  Come  on,  Jimmy;  let's  play 
"Old  Folks"  and  sit  by  the  fire.  (She  begins  to  push  the 
big  armchair  over  to  the  fire.  Tom  jumps  up,  moves  her 
aside,  and  pushes  it  himself.  Jimmy  renders  assistance.] 

TOM  :  Thanks,  Big  Fellow,  you  are  "sure  some"  strong.  I'll 
remember  you  when  these  people  around  here  come 
for  me  to  move  pianos  and  such  things  around.  Shake ! 
(They  shake  hands). 

JIMMY  (Proudly)  :  I  am  awful  strong,  am  I  not? 

TOM  :  You  "sure"  are  a  Hercules.  (Hurriedly,  as  Jimmy's 
mouth  and  eyes  open  wide).  And  see  here!  don't  ask  me 
tonight  who  that  was.  I'll  tell  you  the  first  thing  tomor- 
row morning.  Hear?  (Returns  to  his  chair  and  paper). 

RACHEL  (Sitting  down)  :  Come  on,  honey  boy,  and  sit  in  my 
lap. 

JIMMY  (Doubtfully)  :  I  thought  we  were  going  to  play  "Old 
Folks." 

RACHEL  :  We  are. 

JIMMY:  Do  old  folks  sit  in  each  other's  laps? 

RACHEL:  Old  folks  do  anything.     Come  on. 

JIMMY  (Hesitatingly  climbs  into  her  lap,  but  presently  snug- 
gles down  and  sighs  audibly  from  sheer  content;  Rachel 
starts  to  bind  up  her  hair)  :  Ma  Rachel,  don't  please !  I 
like  your  hair  like  that.  You're — you're  pretty.  I  like 
to  feel  of  it;  and  it  smells  like — like — oh! — like  a  barn. 

RACHEL:  My!  how  complimentary!  I  like  that.  Like  a 
barn,  indeed! 

JIMMY:  What's  "complimentry" ? 

RACHEL:  Oh!  saying  nice  things  about  me.  (Pinching  his 
cheek  and  laughing)  That  my  hair  is  like  a  barn,  for  in- 
stance. 


RACHEL  69 

JIMMY  (Stoutly)  :  Well,  that  is  "complimentary."  It  smells 
like  hay — like  the  hay  in  the  barn  you  took  me  to,  one  day, 
last  summer.  'Member? 

RACHEL  :  Yes  honey. 

JIMMY  (After  a  brief  pause)  :  Ma  Rachel ! 

RACHEL:  Well? 

JIMMY:  Tell  me  a  story,  please.  It's  "story-time,"  now, 
isn't  it  ? 

RACHEL:  Well,  let's  see.  (They  both  look  into  the  fire  for 
a  space;  beginning  softly)  Once  upon  a  time,  there  were 
two,  dear,  little  boys,  and  they  were  all  alone  in  the  world. 
They  lived  with  a  cruel,  old  man  and  woman,  who  made 
them  work  hard,  very  hard — all  day,  and  beat  them  when 
they  did  not  move  fast  enough,  and  always,  every  night, 
before  they  went  to  bed.  They  slept  in  an  attic  on  a 
rickety,  narrow  bed,  that  went  screech!  screech!  when- 
ever they  moved.  And,  in  summer,  they  nearly  died  with 
the  heat  up  there,  and  in  winter,  with  the  cold.  One  win- 
try night,  when  they  were  both  weeping  very  bitterly  after 
a  particularly  hard  beating,  they  suddenly  heard  a 
pleasant  voice  saying:  "Why  are  you  crying,  little  boys?" 
They  looked  up,  and  there,  in  the  moonlight,  by  their  bed, 
was  the  dearest,  little  old  lady.  She  was  dressed  all  in 
gray,  from  the  peak  of  her  little  pointed  hat  to  her  little, 
buckled  shoes.  She  held  a  black  cane  much  taller  than 
her  little  self.  Her  hair  fell  about  her  ears  in  tiny,  grey 
corkscrew  curls,  and  they  bobbed  about  as  she  moved. 
Her  eyes  were  black  and  bright — as  bright  as — well,  as 
that  lovely,  white  light  there.  No,  there!  And  her 
cheeks  were  as  red  as  the  apple  I  gave  you  yesterday.  Do 
you  remember? 

JIMMY  (Dreamily)  :  Yes. 

RACHEL:  "Why  are  you  crying,  little  boys?"  she  asked  again, 
in  a  lovely,  low,  little  voice.  "Because  we  are  tired  and 


70  RACHEL 

sore  and  hungry  and  cold;  and  we  are  all  alone  in  the 
world;  and  we  don't  know  how  to  laugh  any  more.  We 
should  so  like  to  laugh  again."  "Why,  that's  easy," 
she  said,  "it's  just  like  this."  And  she  laughed  a  little, 
joyous,  musical  laugh.  "Try!"  she  commanded.  They 
tried,  but  their  laughing  boxes  were  very  rusty,  and  they 
made  horrid  sounds.  "Well,"  she  said,  "I  advise  you  to 
pack  up,  and  go  away,  as  soon  as  you  can,  to  the  Land 
of  Laughter.  You'll  soon  learn  there,  I  can  tell  you." 
"Is  there  such  a  land?"  they  asked  doubtfully.  "To  be 
sure  there  is,"  she  answered  the  least  bit  sharply.  "We 
never  heard  of  it,"  they  said.  "Well,  I'm  sure  there  must 
be  plenty  of  things  you  never  heard  about,"  she  said  just 
the  "leastest"  bit  more  sharply.  "In  a  moment  you'll  be 
telling  me  flowers  don't  talk  together,  and  the  birds." 
"We  never  heard  of  such  a  thing,"  they  said  in  surprise, 
their  eyes  like  saucers.  "There!"  she  said,  bobbing  her 
little  curls.  "What  did  I  tell  you?  You  have  much  to 
learn."  "How  do  you  get  to  the  Land  of  Laughter?" 
they  asked.  "You  go  out  of  the  eastern  gate  of  the  town, 
just  as  the  sun  is  rising;  and  you  take  the  highway  there, 
and  follow  it;  and  if  you  go  with  it  long  enough,  it  will 
bring  you  to  the  very  gates  of  the  Land  of  Laughter.  It's 
a  long,  long  way  from  here;  and  it  will  take  you  many 
days."  The  words  had  scarcely  left  her  mouth,  when,  lo ! 
the  little  lady  disappeared,  and  where  she  had  stood  was 
the  white  square  of  moonlight — nothing  else.  And  with- 
out more  ado  these  two  little  boys  put  their  arms  around 
each  other  and  fell  fast  asleep.  And  in  the  grey,  just 
before  daybreak,  they  awoke  and  dressed ;  and,  putting  on 
their  ragged  caps  and  mittens,  for  it  was  a  wintry  day, 
they  stole  out  of  the  house  and  made  for  the  eastern  gate. 
And  just  as  they  reached  it,  and  passed  through,  the 
whole  east  leapt  into  fire.  All  day  they  walked,  and  many 


RACHEL  71 

days  thereafter,  and  kindly  people,  by  the  way,  took  them 
in  and  gave  them  food  and  drink  and  sometimes  a  bed  at 
night.     Often  they  slept  by  the  roadside,  but  they  didn't 
mind  that  for  the  climate  was  delightful — not  too  hot,  and 
not  too  cold.     They  soon  threw  away  their  ragged  little 
mittens.     They  walked  for  many  days,  and  there  was  no 
Land  of  Laughter.     Once  they  met  an  old  man,  richly 
dressed,  with  shining  jewels  on  his  fingers,  and  he  stopped 
them  and  asked:  "Where  are  you  going  so  fast,  little 
boys?"     "We  are  going  to  the  Land  of  Laughter,"  they 
said  together  gravely.     "That,"  said  the  old  man,  "is  a 
very  foolish  thing  to  do.     Come  with  me,  and  I  will  take 
you  to  the  Land  of  Riches.     I  will  cover  you  with  gar- 
ments of  beauty,  and  give  you  jewels  and  a  castle  to  live 
in  and  servants  and  horses  and  many  things  besides." 
And  they  said  to  him:  "No,  we  wish  to  learn  how  to 
laugh  again;  we  have  forgotten  how,  and  we  are  going 
to  the  Land  of  Laughter."     "You  will  regret  not  going 
with  me.     See,  if  you  don't,"  he  said;  and  he  left  them 
in  quite  a  huff.     And  they  walked  again,  many  days,  and 
again  they  met  an  old  man.     He  was  tall  and  imposing- 
looking  and  very  dignified.     And  he  said:  "Where  are 
you  going  so  fast,  little  boys  ?"     "We  are  going  to  the 
Land  of   Laughter,"  they  said  together  very  seriously. 
"What!"  he  said,  "that  is  an  extremely  foolish  thing  to 
do.     Come  with  me,  and  I  will  give  you  power.     I  will 
make  you  great  men:  generals,  kings,  emperors,     What- 
ever you  desire  to  accomplish  will  be  permitted  you." 
And  they  smiled  politely:  "Thank  you  very  much,  but 
we  have  forgotten  how  to  laugh,  and  we  are  going  there 
to  learn  how."     He  looked  upon  them  haughtily,  without 
speaking,  and  disappeared.     And  they  walked  and  walked 
more  days ;  and  they  met  another  old  man.     And  he  was 
clad  in  rags,  and  his  face  was  thin,  and  his  eyes  were 


72  RACHEL 

unhappy.  And  he  whispered  to  them:  "Where  are  you 
going  so  fast,  little  boys?"  "We  are  going  to  the  Land 
of  Laughter,"  they  answered,  without  a  smile.  "Laugh- 
ter! Laughter!  that  is  useless.  Come  with  me  and  I  will 
show  you  the  beauty  of  life  through  sacrifice,  suffering 
for  others.  That  is  the  only  life.  I  come  from  the  Land 
of  Sacrifice."  And  they  thanked  him  kindly,  but  said: 
"We  have  suffered  long  enough.  We  have  forgotten  how 
to  laugh.  We  would  learn  again."  And  they  went  on; 
and  he  looked  after  them  very  wistfully.  They  walked 
more  days,  and  at  last  they  came  to  the  Land  of  Laughter. 
And  how  do  you  suppose  they  knew  this?  Because  they 
could  hear,  over  the  wall,  the  sound  of  joyous  laughter, — 
the  laughter  of  men,  women,  and  children.  And  one  sat 
guarding  the  gate,  and  they  went  to  her.  "We  have  come 
a  long,  long  distance;  and  we  would  enter  the  Land  of 
Laughter."  "Let  me  see  you  smile,  first/'  she  said  gently. 
"I  sit  at  the  gate ;  and  no  one  who  does  not  know  how  to 
smile  may  enter  the  Land  of  Laughter."  And  they  tried 
to  smile,  but  could  not.  "Go  away  and  practice,"  she  said 
kindly,  "and  come  back  tomorrow."  And  they  went 
away,  and  practiced  all  night  how  to  smile;  and  in  the 
morning  they  returned,  and  the  gentle  lady  at  the  gate 
said:  "Dear  little  boys,  have  you  learned  how  to  smile?" 
And  they  said:  "We  have  tried.  How  is  this?"  "Bet- 
ter," she  said,  "much  better.  Practice  some  more,  and 
come  back  tomorrow."  And  they  went  away  obediently 
and  practiced.  And  they  came  the  third  day.  And  she 
said:  "Now  try  again."  And  tears  of  delight  came  into 
her  lovely  eyes.  "Those  were  very  beautiful  smiles,"  she 
said.  "Now,  you  may  enter."  And  she  unlocked  the  gate, 
and  kissed  them  both,  and  they  entered  the  Land — the 
beautiful  Land  of  Laughter.  Never  had  they  seen  such 
blue  skies,  such  green  trees  and  grass;  never  had  they 


RACHEL  73 

heard  such  birds  songs.  And  people,  men,  women  and 
children,  laughing  softly,  came  to  meet  them,  and  took 
them  in,  and  made  them  as  home;  and  soon,  very  soon, 
they  learned  to  sleep.  And  they  grew  up  here,  and  mar- 
ried, and  had  laughing,  happy  children.  And  sometimes 
they  thought  of  the  Land  of  Riches,  and  said :  "Ah  !  well !" 
and  sometimes  of  the  Land  of  Power,  and  sighed  a  little ; 
and  sometimes  of  the  Land  of  Sacrifice — and  their  eyes 
were  wistful.  But  they  soon  forgot,  and  laughed  again. 
And  they  grew  old,  laughing.  And  then  when  they  died 
— a  laugh  was  on  their  lips.  Thus  are  things  in  the  beau- 
tiful Land  of  Laughter.  (There  is  a  long  pause). 

JIMMY:  I  like  that  story,  Ma  Rachel.  It's  nice  to  laugh, 
isn't  is?  Is  there  such  a  land? 

RACHEL  (Softly)  :  What  do  you  think,  honey? 

JIMMY  :  I  thinks  it  would  be  awful  nice  if  there  was.  Don't 
you? 

RACHEL  (Wistfully)  :  If  there  only  were!  If  there  only 
were! 

JIMMY:  Ma  Rachel. 

RACHEL:  Well? 

JIMMY:  It  makes  you  think — kind  of — doesn't  it — of  sun- 
shine medicine? 

RACHEL:  Yes,  honey,— but  it  isn't  medicine  there.  It's  al- 
ways there — just  like — well — like  our  air  here.  It's  al- 
ways sunshine  there. 

JIMMY:  Always  sunshine?     Never  any  dark? 

RACHEL  :  No,  honey. 

JIMMY:  You'd — never — be — afraid  there,  then,  would  you? 
Never  afraid  of  nothing? 

RACHEL:  No,  honey. 

JIMMY  (With  a  big  sigh)  :  Oh!— Oh !  I  wisht  it  was  here— 
not  there.  (Puts  his  hand  up  to  Rachel's  face;  suddenly 


74  RACHEL 

sits  up  and  looks  at  her).  Why,  Ma  Rachel  dear,  you're 
crying.  Your  face  is  all  wet.  Why !  Don't  cry !  Don't 
cry! 

RACHEL  (Gently)  :  Do  you  remember  that  I  told  you  the  lady 
at  the  gate  had  tears  of  joy  in  her  eyes,  when  the  two, 
dear,  little  boys  smiled  that  beautiful  smile? 

JIMMY:  Yes. 

RACHEL:  Well,  these  are  tears  of  joy,  honey,  that's  all — 
tears  of  joy. 

JIMMY:  It  must  be  awful  queer  to  have  tears  of  joy,  'cause 
you're  happy.  I  never  did.  (With  a  sigh).  But,  if  you 
say  they  are,  dear  Ma  Rachel,  they  must  be.  You  knows 
everything,  don't  you? 

RACHEL  (Sadly) :  Some  things,  honey,  some  things.  (A 
silence) . 

JIMMY  (Sighing  happily)  :  This  is  the  beautiful-est  night  I 
ever  knew.  If  you  would  do  just  one  more  thing,  it 
would  be  lots  more  beautiful.  Will  you,  Ma  Rachel? 

RACHEL:  Well,  what,  honey? 

JIMMY:  Will  you  sing — at  the  piano,  I  mean,  it's  lots  pret- 
tier that  way — the  little  song  you  used  to  rock  me  to  sleep 
by?  You  know,  the  one  about  the  "Slumber  Boat"? 

RACHEL:  Oh!  honey,  not  tonight.  You're  too  tired.  It's 
bedtime  now. 

JIMMY  (Patting  her  face  with  his  little  hand;  wheedlingly)  : 
Please!  Ma  Rachel,  please!  pretty  please! 

RACHEL:  Well,  honey  boy,  this  once,  then.  Tonight,  you 
shall  have  the  little  song — I  used  to  sing  you  to  sleep  by 
(half  to  herself)  perhaps,  for  the  last  time. 

JIMMY:  Why,  Ma  Rachel,  why  the  last  time? 

RACHEL  (Shaking  her  head  sadly,  goes  to  the  piano;  in  a 
whisper)  :  The  last  time.  (She  twists  up  her  hair  into  a 
knot  at  the  back  of  her  head  and  looks  at  the  keys  for  a 
few  moments;  then  she  plays  the  accompaniment  of  the 


RACHEL  75 

"Slumber  Boat"  through  softly,  and,  after  a  moment, 
sings.  Her  voice  is  full  of  pent-up  longing,  and  heart- 
break, and  hopelessness.  She  ends  in  a  little  sob,  but 
attempts  to  cover  it  by  singing,  lightly  and  daintily,  the 
chorus  of  "The  Owl  and  the  Moon/' . .  Then  softly  and 
with  infinite  tenderness,  almost  against  her  will,  she  plays 
and  sings  again  the  refrain  of  the  "Slumber  Boat")  : 

"Sail,  baby,  sail 

Out  from  that  sea, 

Only  don't  forget  to  sail 

Back  again  to  me." 

(Presently  she  rises  and  goes  to  Jimmy,  who  is  lolling 
back  happily  in  the  big  chair.  During  the  singing,  Tom 
and  Mrs.  Loving  apparently  do  not  listen;  when  she  sobs, 
however,  Tom's  hand  on  his  paper  tightens;  Mrs.  Lov- 
ing's  needle  poises  for  a  moment  in  mid-air.  Neither  looks 
at  Rachel.  Jimmy  evidently  has  not  noticed  the  sob). 

RACHEL  (Kneeling  by  Jimmy)  :  Well,  honey,  how  did  you 
like  it? 

JIMMY  (Proceeding  to  pull  down  her  hair  from  the  twist)  : 
It  was  lovely,  Ma  Rachel.  (Yawns  audibly).  Now,  Ma 
Rachel,  I'm  just  beautifully  sleepy.  (Dreamily)  I  think 
that  p'r'aps  I'll  go  to  the  Land  of  Laughter  tonight  in  my 
dreams.  I'll  go  in  the  "Slumber  Boat"  and  come  back  in 
the  morning  and  tell  you  all  about  it.  Shall  I  ? 

RACHEL:  Yes,  honey.     (Whispers) 

"Only  don't  forget  to  sail 
Back  again  to  me." 

TOM  (Suddenly):  Rachel!  (Rachel  starts  slightly).  I 
nearly  forgot.  John  is  coming  here  tonight  to  see  how 
you  are.  He  told  me  to  tell  you  so. 


76  RACHEL 

RACHEL  (Stiffens  perceptibly,  then  in  different  tones)  :  Very 
well.  Thank  you.  (Suddenly  with  a  little  cry  she  puts 
her  arms  around  Jimmy)  Jimmy !  honey !  don't  go  tonight. 
Don't  go  without  Ma  Rachel.  Wait  for  me,  honey.  I  do 
so  wish  to  go,  too,  to  the  Land  of  Laughter.  Think  of  it, 
Jimmy ;  nothing  but  birds  always  singing,  and  flowers  al- 
ways blooming,  and  skies  always  blue — and  people,  all  of 
them,  always  laughing,  laughing.  You'll  wait  for  Ma 
Rachel,  won't  you,  honey? 

JIMMY:  Is  there  really  and  truly,  Ma  Rachel,  a  Land  of 
Laughter  ? 

RACHEL:  Oh!  Jimmy,  let's  hope  so;  let's  pray  so. 

JIMMY  (Frowns)  :  I've  been  thinking —  (Pauses).  You 
have  to  smile  at  the  gate,  don't  you,  to  get  in? 

RACHEL:  Yes,  honey. 

JIMMY:  Well,  I  guess  I  couldn't  smile  if  my  Ma  Rachel 
wasn't  somewhere  close  to  me.  So  I  couldn't  get  in  after 
all,  could  I  ?  Tonight,  I'll  go  somewhere  else,  and  tell  you 
all  about  it.  And  then,  some  day,  we'll  go  together,  won't 
we? 

RACHEL  (Sadly)  :  Yes,  honey,  some  day — some  day.  (A 
short  silence).  Well,  this  isn't  going  to  "sleepy-sleep,"  is 
it?  Go,  now,  and  say  good-night  to  Ma  Loving  and  Uncle 
Tom. 

JIMMY  (Gets  down  obediently,  and  goes  first  to  Mrs.  Lov- 
ing. She  leans  over,  and  he  puts  his  little  arms  around 
her  neck.  They  kiss;  very  sweetly)  :  Sweet  dreams !  God 
keep  you  all  the  night ! 

MRS.  LOVING:  The  sweetest  of  sweet  dreams  to  you,  dear 
little  boy!  Good-night!  (Rachel  watches,  unwatched, 
the  scene.  Her  eyes  are  full  of  yearning). 

JIMMY  (Going  to  Tom,  who  makes  believe  he  does  not  see 
him)  :  Uncle  Tom ! 


RACHEL  77 

TOM  (Jumps  as  though  tremendously  startled;  Jimmy 
laughs)  :  My !  how  you  frightened  me.  You'll  put  my 
gizzard  out  of  commission,  if  you  do  that  often.  Well, 
sir,  what  can  I  do  for  you? 

JIMMY:  I  came  to  say  good-night. 

TOM  (Gathering  Jimmy  up  in  his  arms  and  kissing  him; 
gently  and  with  emotion)  Good-night,  dear  little  Big  Fel- 
low !  Good-night ! 

JIMMY  :  Sweet  dreams !  God  keep  you  all  the  night !  (Goes 
sedately  to  Rachel,  and  holds  out  his  little  hand).  I'm 
ready,  Ma  Rachel.  (Yawns)  I'm  so  nice  and  sleepy. 

RACHEL  (With  Jimmy's  hand  in  hers,  she  hesitates  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  approaches  Tom  slowly.  For  a  short 
time  she  stands  looking  down  at  him;  suddenly  leaning 
over  him)  :  Why,  Tom,  what  a  pretty  tie!  Is  it  new? 

TOM:  Well,  no,  not  exactly.  I've  had  it  about  a  month. 
It  is  rather  a  beauty,  isn't  it? 

RACHEL  :  Why,  I  never  remember  seeing  it. 

TOM  (Laughing)  :  I  guess  not.     I  saw  to  that. 

RACHEL:  Stingy! 

TOM  :  Well,  I  am — where  my  ties  are  concerned.  I've  had 
experience. 

RACHEL  (Tentatively):  Tom! 

TOM:  Well? 

RACHEL  (Nervously  and  wistfully)  :  Are  you — will  you — I 
mean,  won't  you  be  home  this  evening? 

TOM:  You've  got  a  long  memory,  Sis.  I've  that  engage- 
ment, you  know.  Why? 

RACHEL  (Slowly)  :  I  forgot ;  so  you  have. 

TOM:  Why? 

RACHEL  (Hastily)  :  Oh !  nothing — nothing.  Come  on, 
Jimmy  boy,  you  can  hardly  keep  those  little  peepers  open, 
can  you?  Come  on,  honey.  (Rachel  and  Jimmy  go  out 
the  rear  doorway.  There  is  a  silence). 


78  RACHEL 

MRS.  LOVING  (Slowly,  as  though  thinking  aloud)  :  I  try  to 
make  out  what  could  have  happened;  but  it's  no  use — I 
can't.  Those  four  days,  she  lay  in  bed  hardly  moving, 
scarcely  speaking.  Only  her  eyes  seemed  alive.  I  never 
saw  such  a  wide,  tragic  look  in  my  life.  It  was  as  though 
her  soul  had  been  mortally  wounded.  But  how?  how? 
What  could  have  happened? 

TOM  (Quietly)  :  I  don't  know.  She  generally  tells  me 
everything;  but  she  avoids  me  now.  If  we  are  alone  in 
a  room — she  gets  out.  I  don't  know  what  it  means. 

MRS.  LOVING:  She  will  hardly  let  Jimmy  out  of  her  sight. 
While  he's  at  school,  she's  nervous  and  excited.  She 
seems  always  to  be  listening,  but  for  what?  When  he 
returns,  she  nearly  devours  him.  And  she  always  asks 
him  in  a  frightened  sort  of  way,  her  face  as  pale  and  tense 
as  can  be:  "Well,  honey  boy,  how  was  school  today?" 
And  he  always  answers,  "Fine,  Ma  Rachel,  fine !  I 
learned — " ;  and  then  he  goes  on  to  tell  her  everything  that 
has  happened.  And  when  he  has  finished,  she  says  in  an 
uneasy  sort  of  way:  "Is — is  that  all?"  And  when  he 
says  "Yes,"  she  relaxes  and  becomes  limp.  After  a  little 
while  she  becomes  feverishly  happy.  She  plays  with 
Jimmy  and  the  children  more  than  ever  she  did — and  she 
played  a  good  deal,  as  you  know.  They're  here,  or  she's 
with  them.  Yesterday,  I  said  in  remonstrance,  when  she 
came  in,  her  face  pale  and  haggard  and  black  hollows  un- 
der her  eyes :  "Rachel,  remember  you're  just  out  of  a  sick- 
bed. You're  not  well  enough  to  go  on  like  this."  "I 
know,"  was  all  she  would  say,  "but  I've  got  to.  I  can't 
help  myself.  This  part  of  their  little  lives  must  be  happy 
—it  just  must  be."  (Pauses).  The  last  couple  of  nights, 
Jimmy  has  awakened  and  cried  most  pitfully.  She 
wouldn't  let  me  go  to  him ;  said  I  had  enough  trouble,  and 
she  could  quiet  him.  She  never  will  let  me  know  why  he 


RACHEL  79 

cries;  but  she  stays  with  him,  and  soothes  him  until,  at 
last,  he  falls  asleep  again.  Every  time  she  has  come  out 
like  a  rag ;  and  her  face  is  like  a  dead  woman's.  Strange 
isn't  it,  this  is  the  first  time  we  have  ever  been  able  to  talk 
it  over?  Tom,  what  could  have  happened? 

TOM  :  I  don't  know,  Ma,  but  I  feel,  as  you  do ;  something 
terrible  and  sudden  has  hurt  her  soul;  and,  poor  little 
thing,  she's  trying  bravely  to  readjust  herself  to  life  again. 
(Pauses,  looks  at  his  watch  and  then  rises,  and  goes  to 
her.  He  pats  her  back  awkwardly).  Well,  Ma,  I'm  go- 
ing now.  Don't  worry  too  much.  Youth,  you,  know, 
gets  over  things  finally.  It  takes  them  hard,  that's  all — . 
At  least,  that's  what  the  older  heads  tell  us.  (Gets  his  hat 
and  stands  in  the  vestibule  doorway).  Ma,  you  know,  I 
begin  with  John  tomorrow.  (With  emotion)  I  don't  be- 
lieve we'll  ever  forget  John.  Good-night!  (Exit.  Mrs. 
Loving  continues  to  sew.  Rachel,  her  hair  arranged,  re- 
enters  through  the  rear  doorway.  She  is  humming). 

RACHEL:  He's  sleeping  like  a  top.  Aren't  little  children, 
Ma  dear,  the  sweetest  things,  when  they're  all  helpless 
and  asleep  ?  One  little  hand  is  under  his  cheek ;  and  he's 
smiling.  (Stops  suddenly,  biting  her  lips.  A  pause) 
Where's  Tom? 

MRS.  LOVING  :  He  went  out  a  few  minutes  ago. 

RACHEL  (Sitting  in  Tom's  chair  and  picking  up  his  paper. 
She  is  exceedingly  nervous.  She  looks  the  paper  over 
rapidly;  presently  trying  to  make  her  tone  casual)  :  Ma, — 
you — you — aren't  going  anywhere  tonight,  are  you? 

MRS.  LOVING:  I've  got  to  go  out  for  a  short  time  about  half- 
past  eight.  Mrs.  Jordan,  you  know.  I'll  not  be  gone 
very  long,  though.  Why? 

RACHEL:  Oh!  nothing  particular.  I  just  thought  it  would 
be  cosy  if  we  could  sit  here  together  the  rest  of  the  even- 
ing. Can't  you — can't  you  go  tomorrow? 


8o  RACHEL 

MRS.  LOVING:  Why,  I  don't  see  how  I  can.  I've  made  the 
engagement.  It's  about  a  new  reception  gown ;  and  she's 
exceedingly  exacting,  as  you  know.  I  can't  afford  to  lose 
her. 

RACHEL:  No,  I  suppose  not.  All  right,  Ma  dear.  (Present- 
ly, paper  in  hand,  she  laughs,  but  not  quite  naturally). 
Look!  Ma  dear!  How  is  that  for  fashion,  anyway?  Isn't 
it  the  "limit"?  (Rises  and  shows  her  mother  a  pic- 
ture in  the  paper.  As  she  is  in  the  act,  the  bell  rings. 
With  a  startled  cry).  Oh!  (Drops  the  paper,  and  grips 
her  mother's  hand). 

MRS.  LOVING  (Anxiously)  .-Rachel,  your  nerves  are  right  on 
edge;  and  your  hand  feels  like  fire.  I'll  have  to  see  a 
doctor  about  you;  and  that's  all  there  is  to  it. 

RACHEL  (Laughing  nervously,  and  moving  toward  the  vesti- 
bule). Nonsense,  Ma  dear!  Just  because  I  let  out  a 
whoop  now  and  then,  and  have  nice  warm  hands?  (Goes 
out,  is  heard  talking  through  the  tube)  Yes!  (Her  voice 
emitting  tremendous  relief).  Oh!  bring  it  right  up! 
(Appearing  in  the  doorway)  Ma  dear,  did  you  buy  any- 
thing at  Goddard's  today  ? 

MRS.  LOVING  :  Yes ;  and  I've  been  wondering  why  they  were 
so  late  in  delivering  it.  I  bought  it  early  this  morning. 
(Rachel  goes  out  again.  A  door  opens  and  shuts.  She 
reappears  with  a  bundle). 

MRS.  LOVING:  Put  it  on  my  bed,  Rachel,  please.  (Exit 
Rachel  rear  doorway;  presently  returns  empty- 
handed;  sits  down  again  at  the  table  with  the  paper  be- 
tween herself  and  mother;  sinks  in  a  deep  revery.  Sud- 
denly there  is  the  sound  of  many  loud  knocks  made  by 
numerous  small  fists.  Rachel  drops  the  paper,  and  comes 
to  a  sitting  posture,  tense  again.  Her  mother  looks  at 
hert  but  says  nothing.  Almost  immediately  Rachel  re- 
laxes). 


RACHEL  81 

RACHEL:  My  kiddies!  They're  late,  this  evening.  (Goes 
out  into  the  vestibule.  A  door  opens  and  shuts.  There 
is  the  shrill,  excited  sound  of  childish  voices.  Rachel 
comes  in  surrounded  by  the  childrenr  all  trying  to  say 
something  to  her  at  once.  Rachel  puts  her  finger  on  her 
lip  and  points  toward  the  doorway  in  the  rear.  They  all 
quiet  down.  She  sits  on  the  floor  in  the  front  of  the 
stage,  and  the  children  all  cluster  around  her.  Their  con- 
versation takes  place  in  a  half-whisper.  As  they  enter 
they  nod  brightly  at  Mrs.  Loving,  who  smiles  in  return). 
Why  so  late,  kiddies?  It's  long  past  "sleepy-time." 

LITTLE  NANCY  :  We've  been  playing  "Hide  and  Seek,"  and 
having  the  mostest  fun.  We  promised,  all  of  us,  that  if 
we  could  play  until  half -past  seven  tonight  we  wouldn't 
make  any  fuss  about  going  to  bed  at  seven  o'clock  the  rest 
of  the  week.  It's  awful  hard  to  go.  I  hate  to  go  to  bed ! 

LITTLE  MARY,  LOUISE  and  EDITH  :  So  do  I !  So  do  I !  So 
do  I! 

LITTLE  MARTHA:  I  don't.  I  love  bed.  My  bed,  after  my 
muzzer  tucks  me  all  in,  is  like  a  nice  warm  bag.  I  just 
stick  my  nose  out.  When  I  lifts  my  head  up  I  can  see  the 
light  from  the  dining-room  come  in  the  door.  I  can  hear 
my  muzzer  and  fazzer  talking  nice  and  low;  and  then, 
before  I  know  it,  I'm  fast  asleep,  and  I  dream  pretty 
things,  and  in  about  a  minute  it's  morning  again.  I  love 
my  little  bed,  and  I  love  to  dream. 

LITTLE  MARY  (Aggressively)  :  Well,  I  guess  I  love  to  dream 
too.  I  wish  I  could  dream,  though,  without  going  to  bed. 

LITTLE  NANCY  :  When  I  grow  up,  I'm  never  going  to  bed  at 
night!  (Darkly)  You  see. 

LITTLE  LOUISE:  "Grown-ups"  just  love  to  poke  their  heads 
out  of  windows  and  cry,  "Child'run,  it's  time  for  bed  now ; 
and  you'd  better  hurry,  too,  I  can  tell  you."  They  "sure" 
are  queer,  for  sometimes  when  I  wake  up,  it  must  be 


82  RACHEL 

about  twelve  o'clock,  I  can  hear  by  big  sister  giggling  and 
talking  to  some  silly  man.  If  it's  good  for  me  to  go  to 
bed  early — I  should  think — 

RACHEL  (Interrupting  suddenly)  :  Why,  where  is  my  little 
Jenny  ?  Excuse  me,  Louise  dear. 

LITTLE  MARTHA:  Her  cold  is  awful  bad.  She  coughs  like 
this  (giving  a  distressing  imitation)  and  snuffles  all  the 
time.  She  can't  talk  out  loud,  and  she  can't  go  to  sleep. 
Muzzer  says  she's  fev'rish- — I  thinks  that's  what  she  says. 
Jenny  says  she  knows  she  could  go  to  sleep,  if  you  would 
come  and  sit  with  her  a  little  while. 

RACHEL  :  I  certainly  will.     I'll  go  when  you  do,  honey. 

LITTLE  MARTHA  (Softly  stroking  Rachel's  arm)  :  You're 
the  very  nicest  "grown-up",  (loyally)  except  my  muzzer, 
of  course,  I  ever  knew.  You  knows  all  about  little  chil'- 
run  and  you  can  be  one,  although  you're  all  grown  up. 
I  think  you  would  make  a  lovely  muzzer.  (To  the  rest 
of  the  children)  Don't  you? 

ALL  (In  excited  whispers)  :  Yes,  I  do. 

RACHEL  (Winces,  then  says  gently)  :  Come,  kiddies,  you 
must  go  now,  or  your  mothers  will  blame  me  for  keeping 
you.  (Rises,  as  do  the  rest.  Little  Martha  puts  her  hand 
into  Rachel's).  Ma  dear,  I'm  going  down  to  sit  a  little 
while  with  Jenny.  I'll  be  back  before  you  go,  though. 
Come,  kiddies,  say  good-night  to  my  mother. 

ALL  (Gravely):  Good-night!  Sweet  dreams!  God  keep 
you  all  the  night. 

MRS.  LOVING:  Good-night  dears!     Sweet  dreams,  all! 

(Exeunt  Rachel  and  the  children. 

Mrs.  Loving  continues  to  sew.  The  bell  presently  rings 
three  distinct  times.  In  a  few  moments,  Mrs.  Loving 
gets  up  and  goes  out  into  the  vestibule.  A  door  opens 
and  closes.  Mrs.  Loving  and  John  Strong  come  in.  He 
is  a  trifle  pale  but  his  imperturbable  self.  Mrs.  Loving, 


RACHEL  83 

somewhat  nervous,  takes  her  seat  and  resumes  her  sewing. 
She  motions  Strong  to  a  chair.  He  returns  to  the  vesti- 
bule, leaves  his  hat,  returns,  and  sits  down). 

STRONG  :  Well,  how  is  everything  ? 

MRS.  LOVING:  Oh!  about  the  same,  I  guess.  Tom's  out. 
John,  we'll  never  forget  you — and  your  kindness. 

STRONG:  That  was  nothing.     And  Rachel? 

MRS.  LOVING:  She'll  be  back  presently.  She  went  to  sit 
with  a  sick  child  for  a  little  while. 

STRONG:  And  how  is  she? 

MRS.  LOVING:  She's  not  herself  yet,  but  I  think  she  is  bet- 
ter. 

STRONG  (After  a  short  pause)  :  Well,  what  did  happen — 
exactly  ? 

MRS.  LOVING  :  That's  just  what  I  don't  know. 

STRONG:  When  you  came  home — you  couldn't  get  in — was 
that  it? 

MRS.  LOVING:  Yes.  (Pauses).  It  was  just  a  week  ago 
today.  I  was  down  town  all  the  morning.  It  was  about 
one  o'clock  when  I  got  back.  I  had  forgotten  my  key. 
I  rapped  on  the  door  and  then  called.  There  was  no 
answer.  A  window  was  open,  and  I  could  feel  the  air 
under  the  door,  and  I  could  hear  it  as  the  draught  sucked 
it  through.  There  was  no  other  sound.  Presently  I 
made  such  a  noise  the  people  began  to  come  out  into  the 
hall.  Jimmy  was  in  one  of  the  flats  playing  with  a  little 
girl  named  Mary.  He  told  me  he  had  left  Rachel  here  a 
short  time  before.  She  had  given  him  four  cookies,  two 
for  him  and  two  for  Mary,  and  had  told  him  he  could  play 
with  her  until  she  came  to  tell  him  his  lunch  was  ready. 
I  saw  he  was  getting  frightened,  so  I  got  the  little  girl 
and  her  mother  to  keep  him  in  their  flat.  Then,  as  no 
man  was  at  home,  I  sent  out  for  help.  Three  men  broke 
the  door  down.  (Pauses).  We  found  Rachel  uncon- 


84  RACHEL 

scious,  lying  on  her  face.  For  a  few  minutes  I  thought 
she  was  dead.  (Pauses).  A  vase  had  fallen  over  on 
the  table  and  the  water  had  dripped  through  the  cloth  and 
onto  the  floor.  There  had  been  flowers  in  it.  When  I 
left,  there  were  no  flowers  here.  What  she  could  have 
done  to  them,  I  can't  say.  The  long  stems  were  lying 
everywhere,  and  the  flowers  had  been  ground  into  the 
floor.  I  could  tell  that  they  must  have  been  roses  from 
the  stems.  After  we  had  put  her  to  bed  and  called  the 
doctor,  and  she  had  finally  regained  consciousness,  I  very 
naturally  asked  her  what  had  happened.  All  she  would 
say  was,  "Ma  dear,  I'm  too — tired — please."  For  four 
days  she  lay  in  bed  scarcely  moving,  speaking  only  when 
spoken  to.  That  first  day,  when  Jimmy  came  in  to  see 
her,  she  shrank  away  from  him.  We  had  to  take  him  out, 
and  comfort  him  as  best  we  could.  We  kept  him  away, 
almost  by  force,  until  she  got  up.  And,  then,  she  was 
utterly  miserable  when  he  was  out  of  her  sight.  What 
happened,  I  don't  know.  She  avoids  Tom,  and  she  won't 
tell  me.  (Pauses).  Tom  and  I  both  believe  her  soul 
has  been  hurt.  The  trouble  isn't  with  her  body.  You'll 
find  her  highly  nervous.  Sometimes  she  is  very  much 
depressed;  again  she  is  feverishly  gay — almost  reckless. 
What  do  you  think  about  it,  John? 

STRONG  (Who  has  listened  quietly)  :  Had  anybody  been 
here,  do  you  know  ? 

MRS.  LOVING  :  No,  I  don't.  I  don't  like  to  ask  Rachel ;  and 
I  can't  ask  the  neighbors. 

STRONG:  No,  of  course  not.  (Pauses).  You  say  there 
were  some  flowers? 

MRS.  LOVING  :  Yes. 

STRONG  :  And  the  flowers  were  ground  into  the  carpet  ? 

MRS.  LOVING:  Yes. 


RACHEL  85 

STRONG:  Did  you  happen  to  notice  the  box?  They  must 
have  come  in  a  box,  don't  you  think? 

MRS.  LOVING  :  Yes,  there  was  a  box  in  the  kitchenette.  It 
was  from  "Marcy's."  I  saw  no  card. 

STRONG  (Slowly) :  It  is  rather  strange.  (A  long  silence, 
during  which  the  outer  door  opens  and  shuts.  Rachel  is 
heard  singing.  She  stops  abruptly.  In  a  second  or  two 
she  appears  in  the  door.  There  is  an  air  of  suppressed 
excitement  about  her). 

RACHEL  :  Hello !  John.  (Strong  rises,  nods  at  her,  and  brings 
forward  for  her  the  big  arm-chair  near  the  fire).  I 
thought  that  was  your  hat  in  the  hall.  It's  brand  new, 
I  know — but  it  looks — "Johnlike."  How  are  you?  Ma! 
Jenny  went  to  sleep  like  a  little  lamb.  I  don't  like  her 
breathing,  though.  (Looks  from  one  to  the  other;  flip- 
pantly) Who's  dead?  (Nods  her  thanks  to  Strong  for 
the  chair  and  sits  down). 

MRS.  LOVING:  Dead,  Rachel? 

RACHEL:  Yes.  The  atmosphere  here  is  so  funereal, — it's 
positively  "crapey." 

STRONG  :  I  don't  know  why  it  should  be — I  was  just  asking 
how  you  are. 

RACHEL:  Heavens!  Does  the  mere  inquiry  into  my  health 
precipitate  such  an  atmosphere?  Your  two  faces  were 
as  long,  as  long — (Breaks  off).  Kind  sir,  let  me  assure 
you,  I  am  in  the  very  best  of  health.  And  how  are  you, 
John? 

STRONG:  Oh!  I'm  always  well.     (Sits  down). 

MRS.  LOVING:  Rachel,  I'll  have  to  get  ready  to  go  now. 
John,  don't  hurry.  I'll  be  back  shortly,  probably  in  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour — maybe  less. 

RACHEL  :  And  maybe  more,  if  I  remember  Mrs.  Jordan. 
However,  Ma  dear,  I'll  do  the  best  I  can — while  you  are 
away.  I'll  try  to  be  a  credit  to  your  training.  (Mrs. 


86  RACHEL 

Loving  smiles  and  goes  out  the  rear  doorway).  Now, 
let's  see — in  the  books  of  etiquette,  I  believe,  the  properly 
reared  young  lady,  always  asks  the  young  gentleman 
caller — you're  young  enough,  aren't  you,  to  be  classed  still 
as  a  "young  gentleman  caller?"  (No  answer).  Well, 
anyway,  she  always  asks  the  young  gentleman  caller 
sweetly  something  about  the  weather.  (Primly)  This 
has  been  an  exceedingly  beautiful  day,  hasn't  it,  Mr. 
Strong?  (No  answer  from  Strong,  who,  with  his  head 
resting  against  the  back  of  the  chair,  and  his  knees 
crossed  is  watching  her  in  an  amused,  quizzical  manner). 
Well,  really,  every  properly  brought  up  young  gentleman, 
I'm  sure,  ought  to  know,  that  it's  exceedingly  rude  not  to 
answer  a  civil  question. 

STRONG  (Lazily)  :  Tell  me  what  to  answer,  Rachel. 

RACHEL  :  Say,  "Yes,  very" ;  and  look  interested  and  pleased 
when  you  say  it. 

STRONG  (With  a  half -smile)  :  Yes,  very. 

RACHEL:  Well,  I  certainly  wouldn't  characterize  that  as  a 
particularly  animated  remark.  Besides,  when  you  look 
at  me  through  half-closed  lids  like  that — and  kind  of 
smile — what  are  you  thinking?  (No  answer)  John 
Strong,  are  you  deaf  or — just  plain  stupid? 

STRONG:  Plain  stupid,  I  guess. 

RACHEL  (In  wheedling  tones)  :  What  were  you  thinking, 
John? 

STRONG  (Slowly)  :  I  was  thinking — (Breaks  off) 

RACHEL  (Irritably)  :  Well? 

STRONG  :  I've  changed  my  mind. 

RACHEL:  You're  not  going  to  tell  me? 

STRONG  :No. 

(Mrs.  Loving  dressed  for  the  street  comes  in) 

MRS.  LOVING  :  Goodbye,  children.  Rachel,  don't  quarrel  so 
much  with  John.  Let  me  see — if  I  have  my  key.  (Feels 


RACHEL  87 

in  her  bag)  Yes,  I  have  it.  I'll  be  back  shortly.  Good- 
bye. (Strong  and  Rachel  rise.  He  bows). 

RACHEL:  Good-bye,  Ma  dear.  Hurry  back  as  soon  as  you 
can,  won't  you?  (Exit  Mrs.  Loving  through  the  vesti- 
bule. Strong  leans  back  again  in  his  chair ,  and  watches 
Rachel  through  half-closed  eyes.  Rachel  sits  in  her  chair 
nervously). 

STRONG:  Do  you  mind,  if  I  smoke? 

RACHEL  :  You  know  I  don't. 

STRONG  :  I  am  trying  to  behave  like — Reginald — "the  prop- 
erly reared  young  gentleman  caller."  (Lights  a  cigar; 
goes  over  to  the  fire,  and  throws  his  match  away.  Rachel 
goes  into  the  kitchenette,  and  brings  him  a  saucer  for  his 
ashes.  She  places  it  on  the  table  near  him).  Thank  you. 
(They  both  sit  again,  Strong  very  evidently  enjoying  his 
cigar  and  Rachel).  Now  this  is  what  I  call  cosy. 

RACHEL:  Cosy!    Why? 

STRONG:  A  nice  warm  room — shut  in — curtains  drawn — 
a  cheerful  fire  crackling  at  my  back — a  lamp,  not  an 
electric  or  gas  one,  but  one  of  your  plain,  old-fashioned 
kerosene  ones — 

RACHEL  (Interupting)  :  Ma  dear  would  like  to  catch  you, 
I  am  sure,  talking  about  her  lamp  like  that.  "Old- 
fashioned!  plain!" — You  have  nerve. 

STRONG  (Continuing  as  though  he  had  not  been  inter- 
rupted) :  A  comfortable  chair — a  good  cigar — and  not 
very  far  away,  a  little  lady,  who  is  looking  charming,  so 
near,  that  if  I  reached  over,  I  could  touch  her.  You  there 
— and  I  here. — It's  living. 

RACHEL:  Well!  of  all  things!  A  compliment — and  from 
you  I  How  did  it  slip  out,  pray?  (No  answer).  I 
suppose  that  you  realize  that  a  conversation  between  two 
persons  is  absolutely  impossible,  if  one  has  to  do  her  share 
all  alone.  Soon  my  ingenuity  for  introducing  interesting 


88  RACHEL 

subjects  will  be  exhausted;  and  then  will  follow  what, 
I  believe,  the  story  books  call,  "an  uncomfortable  silence/' 

STRONG  (Slowly)  :  Silence — between  friends — isn't  such  a 
bad  thing. 

RACHEL:  Thanks  awfully.  (Leans  back;  cups  her  cheek 
in  her  hand,  and  makes  no  pretense  at  further  conver- 
sation. The  old  look  of  introspection  returns  to  her  eyes. 
She  does  not  move). 

STRONG  (Quietly):  Rachel!  (Rachel  starts  perceptibly) 
You  must  remember  I'm  here.  I  don't  like  looking  into 
your  soul — when  you  forget  you're  not  alone. 

RACHEL:  I  hadn't  forgotten. 

STRONG:  Wouldn't  it  be  easier  for  you,  little  girl,  if  you 
could  tell — some  one? 

RACHEL:  No.     (A  silence) 

STRONG:  Rachel, — you're  fond  of  flowers, — aren't  you? 

RACHEL:  Yes. 

STRONG:  Rosebuds — red  rosebuds — particularly? 

RACHEL  (Nervously)  :  Yes. 

STRONG:  Did  you — dislike — the  giver? 

RACHEL  (More  nervously;  bracing  herself)  :  No,  of  course 
not. 

STRONG:  Rachel, — why — why — did  you — kill  the  roses — 
then? 

RACHEL  (Twisting  her  hands)  :  Oh,  John!  I'm  so  sorry, 
Ma  dear  told  you  that.  She  didn't  know,  you  sent  them. 

STRONG:  So  I  gathered.  (Pauses  and  then  leans  forward; 
quietly).  Rachel,  little  girl,  why — did  you  kill  them? 

RACHEL  (Breathing  quickly)  :  Don't  you  believe — it — a — a 
— kindness — sometimes — to  kill  ? 

STRONG  (After  a  pause)  :  You — considered — it — a — kind- 
ness— to  kill  them? 

RACHEL:  Yes.     (Another  pause) 

STRONG:  Do  you  mean — just — the  roses? 


RACHEL  89 

RACHEL  (Breathing  more  quickly):  John! — Oh!  must  I 
say? 

STRONG  :  Yes,  little  Rachel. 

RACHEL  (In  a  whisper)  :  No.  (There  is  a  long  pause. 
Rachel  leans  back  limply,  and  closes  her  eyes.  Presently 
Strong  rises ,  and  moves  his  chair  very  close  to  hers.  She 
does  not  stir.  He  puts  his  cigar  on  the  saucer). 

STRONG  (Leaning  forward;  very  gently)  :  Little  girl,  little 
girl,  can't  you  tell  me  why? 

RACHEL  (Wearily)  :  I  can't. — It  hurts — too  much — to  talk 
about  it  yet,— please. 

STRONG  (Takes  her  hand;  looks  at  it  a  few  minutes  and 
then  at  her  quietly).  You — don't — care,  then?  (She 
winces)  Rachel! — Look  at  me,  little  girl!  (As  if 
against  her  will,  she  looks  at  him.  Her  eyes  are  fearful, 
hunted.  She  tries  to  look  away,  to  draw  away  her  hand; 
but  he  holds  her  gaze  and  her  hand  steadily).  Do  you? 

RACHEL  (Almost  sobbing):  John!  John!  don't  ask  me. 
You  are  drawing  my  very  soul  out  of  my  body  with  your 
eyes.  You  must  not  talk  this  way.  You  mustn't  look — 
John,  don't!  (Tries  to  shield  her  eyes). 

STRONG  (Quietly  takes  both  of  her  hands,  and  kisses  the 
backs  and  the  palms  slowly.  A  look  of  horror  creeps 
into  her  face.  He  deliberately  raises  his  eyes  and  looks 
at  her  mouth.  She  recoils  as  though  she  expected  him 
to  strike  her.  He  resumes  slowly)  If — you — do — care, 
and  I  know  now — that  you  do — nothing  else,  nothing 
should  count. 

RACHEL  (Wrenching  herself  from  his  grasp  and  rising.  She 
covers  her  ears;  she  breathes  rapidly)  :  No!  No!  No! — 
You  must  stop.  (Laughs  nervously;  continues  feverish- 
ly) I'm  not  behaving  very  well  as  a  hostess,  am  I?  Let's 
see.  What  shall  I  do?  I'll  play  you  something,  John. 
How  will  that  do?  Or  I'll  sing  to  you.  You  used  to 


90  RACHEL 

like  to  hear  me  sing;  you  said  my  voice,  I  remember,  was 
sympathetic,  didn't  you?  (Moves  quickly  to  the  piano). 
I'll  sing  you  a  pretty  little  song.  I  think  it's  beautiful. 
You've  never  heard  it,  I  know.  I've  never  sung  it  to  you 
before.  It's  Nevin's  "At  Twilight."  (Pauses,  looks 
down,  before  she  begins,  then  turns  toward  him  and  says 
quietly  and  sweetly)  Sometimes — in  the  coming  years — I 
want — you  to  remember — I  sang  you  this  little  song. — 
Will  you  ? — I  think  it  will  make  it  easier  for  me —  when  I 
— when  I —  (Breaks  off  and  begins  the  first  chords. 
Strong  goes  slowly  to  the  piano.  He  leans  there  watch- 
ing intently.  Rachel  sings)  : 

"The  roses  of  yester-year 
Were  all  of  the  white  and  red; 

It  fills  my  heart  with  silent  fear 
To  find  all  their  beauty  fled. 

The  roses  of  white  are  sere, 

All  faded  the  roses  red, 
And  one  who  loves  me  is  not  here 
And  one  that  I  love  is  dead." 

(A  long  pause.  Then  Strong  goes  to  her  and  lifts  her 
from  the  piano-stool.  He  puts  one  arm  around  her  very 
tenderly  and  pushes  her  head  back  so  he  can  look  into  her 
eyes.  She  shuts  themt  but  is  passive). 
STRONG  (Gently)  :  Little  girl,  little  girl,  don't  you  know  that 
suggestions — suggestions — like  those  you  are  sending 
yourself  constantly — are  wicked  things  ?  You,  who  are  so 
gentle,  so  loving,  so  warm — (Breaks  off  and  crushes  her 
to  him.  He  kisses  her  many  times.  She  does  not  resist,  but 
in  the  midst  of  his  caresses  she  breaks  suddenly  into  con- 
vulsive laughter.  He  tries  to  hush  the  terrible  sound  with 


RACHEL  91 

his  mouth;  then  brokenly)  Little  girl — don't  laugh — like 
that. 

RACHEL  (Interrupted  throughout  by  her  laughter)  :  I  have 
to. — God  is  laughing. — We're  his  puppets. — He  pulls  the 
wires, — and  we're  so  funny  to  Him. — I'm  laughing  too — 
because  I  can  hear — my  little  children — weeping.  They 
come  to  me  generally  while  I'm  asleep, — but  I  can  hear 
them  now. — They've  begged  me — do  you  understand? — 
begged  me — not  to  bring  them  here; — and  I've  promised 
them — not  to. — I've  promised.  I  can't  stand  the  sound 
of  their  crying. — I  have  to  laugh — Oh!  John!  laugh! — 
laugh  too! — I  can't  drown  their  weeping. 
(Strong  picks  her  up  bodily  and  carries  her  to  the  arm- 
chair) . 

STRONG  (Harshly)  :  Now,  stop  that! 

RACHEL  (In  sheer  surprise)  :  W-h-a-t? 

STRONG  (Still  harshly)  :  Stop  that!— You've  lost  your  self- 
control. — Find  yourself  again ! 

(He  leaves  her  and  goes  over  to  the  fireplace,  and  stands 
looking  down  into  it  for  some  little  time.  Rachel,  little 
by  little ,  becomes  calmer.  Strong  returns  and  sits  beside 
her  again.  She  doesn't  move.  He  smoothes  her  hair  back 
gently,  and  kisses  her  forehead — and  then,  slowly,  her 
mouth.  She  does  not  resist;  simply  sits  there,  with  shut 
eyes,  inert,  limp). 

STRONG:  Rachel! — (Pauses).  There  is  a  little  flat  on  43rd 
Street.  It  faces  south  and  overlooks  a  little  park.  Do 
you  remember  it? — it's  on  the  top  floor? — Once  I  remem- 
ber your  saying — you  liked  it.  That  was  over  a  year  ago. 
That  same  day — I  rented  it.  I've  never  lived  there.  No 
one  knows  about  it — not  even  my  mother.  It's  complete- 
ly furnished  now — and  waiting — do  you  know  for  whom  ? 
Every  single  thing  in  it,  I've  bought  myself — even  to  the 
pins  on  the  little  bird's-eye  maple  dresser.  It  has  been 


92  RACHEL 

the  happiest  year  I  have  ever  known.  I  furnished  it — 
one  room  at  a  time.  It's  the  prettiest,  the  most  homelike 
little  flat  I've  ever  seen.  (Very  low)  Everything  there- 
breathes  love.  Do  you  know  for  whom  it  is  waiting  ?  On 
the  sitting-room  floor  is  a  beautiful,  Turkish  rug — red,  and 
blue  and  gold.  It's  soft— and  rich — and  do  you  know  for 
whose  little  feet  it  is  waiting?  There  are  delicate  curtains 
at  the  windows  and  a  bookcase  full  of  friendly,  eager, 
little  books. — Do  you  know  for  whom  they  are  waiting? 
There  are  comfortable  leather  chairs,  just  the  right  size, 
and  a  beautiful  piano — that  I  leave  open — sometimes,  and 
lovely  pictures  of  Madonnas.  Do  you  know  for  whom 
they  are  waiting?  There  is  an  open  fireplace  with  logs 
of  wood,  all  carefully  piled  on  gleaming  andirons — and 
waiting.  There  is  a  bellows  and  a  pair  of  shining  tongs- 
waiting.  And  in  the  kitchenette  painted  blue  and  white, 
and  smelling  sweet  with  paint  is  everything:  bright  pots 
and  pans  and  kettles,  and  blue  and  white  enamel-ware, 
and  all  kinds  of  knives  and  forks  and  spoons — and  on  the 
door — a  roller-towel.  Little  girl,  do  you  know  for  whom 
they  are  all  waiting?  And  somewhere — there's  a  big, 
strong  man — with  broad  shoulders.  And  he's  willing  and 
anxious  to  do  anything — everything,  and  he's  waiting  very 
patiently.  Little  girl,  is  it  to  be — yes  or  no? 

RACHEL  (During  Strong's  speech  life  has  come  flooding 
back  to  her.  Her  eyes  are  shining;  her  face,  eager.  For 
a  moment  she  is  beautifully  happy).  Oh !  you're  too  good 
to  me  and  mine,  John.  I — didn't  dream  any  one — could 
be — so  good.  (Leans  forward  and  puts  his  big  hand 
against  her  cheek  and  kisses  it  shyly). 

STRONG  (Quietly)  :  Is  it — yes — or  no,  little  girl? 

RACHEL  (Feverishly,  gripping  his  hands)  :  Oh,  yes !  yes ! 
yes!  and  take  me  quickly,  John.  Take  me  before  I  can 
think  any  more.  You  mustn't  let  me  think,  John.  And 


RACHEL  93 

you'll  be  good  to  me,  won't  you?  Every  second  of  every 
minute,  of  every  hour,  of  every  day,  you'll  have  me  in 
your  thoughts,  won't  you?  And  you'll  be  with  me  every 
minute  that  you  can?  And,  John,  John! — you'll  keep 
away  the  weeping  of  my  little  children.  You  won't  let 
me  hear  it,  will  you?  You'll  make  me  forget  everything 
everything — won't  you?— Life  is  so  short,  John.  (Shivers 
and  then  fearfully  and  slowly)  And  eternity  so — long. 
(Feverishly  again)  And,  John,  after  I  am  dead — promise 
me,  promise  me  you'll  love  me  more.  (Shivers  again). 
I'll  need  love  then.  Oh!  I'll  need  it.  (Suddenly  there 
comes  to  their  ears  the  sound  of  a  child's  weeping.  It  is 
monotonous,  hopeless,  terribly  afraid. .  Rachel  recoils) . 
Oh !  John !— Listen !— It's  my  boy,  again.— I— John— I'll 
be  back  in  a  little  while.  (Goes  swiftly  to  the  door  in  the 
rear,  pauses  and  looks  back.  The  weeping  continues. 
Her  eyes  are  tragic.  Slowly  she  kisses  her  hand  to  him 
and  disappears.  John  stands  where  she  has  left  him 
looking  down.  The  weeping  stops.  Presently  Rachel 
appears  in  the  doorway.  She  is  hag gar dt  and  grey.  She 
does  not  enter  the  room.  She  speaks  as  one  dead  might 
speak — tonelessly,  slozvly). 

RACHEL:  Do  you  wish  to  know  why  Jimmy  is  crying? 

STRONG  :  Yes. 

RACHEL:  I  am  twenty-two — and  I'm  old;  you're  thirty-two 
— and  you're  old;  Tom's  twenty-three — and  he  is  old. 
Ma  dear's  sixty — and  she  said  once  she  is  much  older  than 
that.  She  is.  We  are  all  blighted ;  we  are  all  accursed — 
all  of  us — ,  everywhere,  we  whose  skins  are  dark — our 
lives  blasted  by  the  white  man's  prejudice.  (Pauses) 
And  my  little  Jimmy — seven  years  old,  that's  all — is 
blighted  too.  In  a  year  or  two,  at  best,  he  will  be  made 
old  by  suffering.  (Pauses) .  One  week  ago,  today,  some 
white  boys,  older  and  larger  than  my  little  Jimmy,  as  he 


94  RACHEL 

was  leaving  the  school — called  him  "Nigger" !  They 
chased  him  through  the  streets  calling  him,  "Nigger! 
Nigger !  Nigger !"  One  boy  threw  stones  at  him.  There 
is  still  a  bruise  on  his  little  back  where  one  struck  him. 
That  will  get  well;  but  they  bruised  his  soul — and  that — 
will  never — get  well.  He  asked  me  what  "Nigger"  meant. 
I  made  light  of  the  whole  thing,  laughed  it  off.  He  went 
to  his  little  playmates,  and  very  naturally  asked  them. 
The  oldest  of  them  is  nine! — and  they  knew,  poor 
little  things — and  they  told  him.  (Pauses).  For  the 
last  couple  of  nights  he  has  been  dreaming — about 
these  boys.  And  he  always  awakes — in  the  dark — 
afraid — afraid — of  the  now — and  the  future — I  have  seen 
that  look  of  deadly  fear — in  the  eyes — of  other  little 
children.  I  know  what  it  is  myself. — I  was  twelve — 
when  some  big  boys  chased  me  and  called  me  names. — I 
never  left  the  house  afterwards — without  being  afraid. 
I  was  afraid,  in  the  streets — in  the  school — in  the  church, 
everywhere,  always,  afraid  of  being  hurt.  And  I — was 
not — afraid  in  vain.  (The  weeping  begins  again).  He's 
only  a  baby — and  he's  blighted.  (To  Jimmy)  Honey, 
I'm  right  here.  I'm  coming  in  just  a  minute.  Don't  cry. 
(To  Strong)  If  it  nearly  kills  me  to  hear  my  Jimmy's 
crying,  do  you  think  I  could  stand  it,  when  my  own  child, 
flesh  of  my  flesh,  blood  of  my  blood — learned  the  same 
reason  for  weeping?  Do  you?  (Pauses).  Ever  since 
I  fell  here— a  week  ago — I  am  afraid — to  go — to  sleep, 
for  every  time  I  do — my  children  come — and  beg  me — 
weeping — not  to — bring  them  here — to  suffer.  Tonight, 
they  came — when  I  was  awake.  (Pauses).  I  have 
promised  them  again,  now — by  Jimmy's  bed.  (In  a 
whisper)  I  have  damned — my  soul  to  all  eternity — if  I  do. 
(To  Jimmy)  Honey,  don't!  I'm  coming.  (To  Strong) 
And  John, — dear  John — you  see — it  can  never  be — all  the 


RACHEL  95 

beautiful,  beautiful  things — you  have — told  me  about. 
(Wistfully)  No — they — can  never  be — now.  (Strong 
comes  toward  her)  No, — John  dear, — you — must  not — 
touch  me — any  more.  (Pauses).  Dear,  this — is — 
"Good-bye." 

STRONG  (Quietly)  :  It's  not  fair — to  you,  Rachel,  to  take 
you — at  your  word — tonight.  You're  sick ;  you've  brood- 
ed so  long,  so  continuously, — you've  lost — your  perspec- 
tive. Don't  answer,  yet.  Think  it  over  for  another  week 
and  I'll  come  back. 

RACHEL  (Wearily)  :  No, — I  can't  think — any  more. 

STRONG:  You  realize — fully — you're  sending  me — for  al- 
ways? 

RACHEL:  Yes. 

STRONG  :  And  you  care  ? 

RACHEL:  Yes. 

STRONG:  It's  settled,  then  for  all  time — "Good-bye!" 

RACHEL  (After  a  pause)  :  Yes. 

STRONG  (Stands  looking  at  her  steadily  a  long  time,  and  then 
moves  to  the  door  and  turns,  facing  her;  with  infinite  ten- 
derness) :  Good-bye,  dear,  little  Rachel — God  bless  you. 

RACHEL:  Good-bye,  John!  (Strong  goes  out.  A  door 
opens  and  shuts.  There  is  finality  in  the  sound.  The 
weeping  continues.  Suddenly;  with  a  great  cry)  John! 
John!  (Runs  out  into  the  vestibule.  She  presently  re- 
turns. She  is  calm  again.  Slowly)  No !  No !  John.  Not 
for  us.  (A  pause;  with  infinite  yearning)  Oh!  John, — 
if  it  only — if  it  only —  (Breaks  off,  controls  herself. 
Slowly  again;  thoughtfully)  No — No  sunshine — no  laugh- 
ter— always,  always — darkness.  That  is  it.  Even  our 
little  flat —  (In  a  whisper)  John's  and  mine — the  little  flat 
— that  calls,  calls  us — through  darkness.  It  shall  wait — 
and  wait — in  vain — in  darkness.  Oh,  John!  (Pauses). 
And  my  little  children!  my  little  children!  (The  weep- 


96  RACHEL 

ing  ceases;  pauses).  I  shall  never — see — you — now. 
Your  little,  brown,  beautiful  bodies — I  shall  never  see. — 
Your  dimples — everywhere — your  laughter — your  tears — 
the  beautiful,  lovely  feel  of  you  here.  (Puts  her  hands 
against  her  heart).  Never — never — to  be.  (A  pause, 
fiercely)  But  you  are  somewhere — and  wherever  you  are 
you  are  mine!  You  are  mine!  All  of  you!  Every  bit 
of  you !  Even  God  can't  take  you  away.  (A  pause ;  very 
sweetly;  pathetically)  Little  children! — My  little  chil- 
dren!— No  more  need  you  come  to  me — weeping — weep- 
ing. You  may  be  happy  now — you  are  safe.  Little  weep- 
ing, voices,  hush !  hush !  ( The  weeping  begins  again.  To 
Jimmy,  her  whole  soul  in  her  voice)  Jimmy!  My  little 
Jimmy!  Honey!  I'm  coming. — Ma  Rachel  loves  you  so. 
(Sobs  and  goes  blindly,  unsteadily  to  the  rear  doorway; 
she  leans  her  head  there  one  second  against  the  door;  and 
then  stumbles  through  and  disappears.  The  light  in  the 
lamp  flickers  and  goes  out... It  is  black.  The  terrible, 
heart-breaking  weeping  continues). 

THE  END 


P535/3 


I.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


CDD3D3b?31 


